


The Elliot Code of Honour

by cest_what, softlyforgotten



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, The Like
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Crossdressing, F/F, M/M, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cest_what/pseuds/cest_what, https://archiveofourown.org/users/softlyforgotten/pseuds/softlyforgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Masquerades, double identities, cross-dressing, feuds, duels and pining. (A regency AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to our lovely betas allyndra and shihadchick.

"This isn't the best idea you've ever had, I hope you know," Z said, propping her feet up on the arm of the sofa in a way that would probably give her mother a conniption fit were she there to see. She looked outrageously comfortable, smirking over at Ryan and drumming her heels on the soft cotton, clearly admiring her knee-high boots far more than she was willing to admit.

Ryan glared at her. "You're not being very helpful," he said, fumbling with the laces of his bodice, and Z grinned, standing up and crossing over to him. She took off her gloves and tied the laces for him, fingers moving quick and deft. Ryan scowled. He was actually pretty proud of his plan, but he was a little pissed at the fact that Z's costume was so much easier to put on; she hadn't even had much trouble with her neckcloth, tied negligently _a la Byron_. She looked good, too, the long portion of her hair tucked into her ridiculous feathered hat, the short front curls escaping to make her look like a foppish gentleman in the latest fashion. Her waistcoat was a deep sable, her coat yet more black, and a scarlet-trimmed short cloak fell easily around her shoulders. Her boots came up to her knees, fitting tight and smooth over her breeches. Z looked like a daring nobleman with wicked, dark eyes, if also looked rather short. (Or, okay, very short.) Ryan mostly looked like a guy in a dress.

The dress wasn't even _on_ properly, and Ryan struggled again, rolling his shoulders awkwardly against the delicate material. Z smacked his shoulder, forcing him still, and began adjusting it, tugging it down until it lay smooth, putting the hem straight, letting the lace fall down the train at the back just right. She bit her lip, cocking her head to the side and squinting, then nodded and stepped back.

"There," she said. Ryan turned to the mirror hopefully, and sighed. The dress looked nice enough, a pale blue with midnight blue trim, but Ryan looked stupid and awkward, and his feet seemed way too big for the not-dainty-enough slippers he'd had to get custom made. The shoemaker had squinted at him so suspiciously; he'd been sure that the man had guessed. How could anyone _not_ guess, Ryan wondered. He looked ridiculous, and told Z so.

"Well, yes," she said, then smiled, touching the side of his face. "We're not done yet, Ryan, just – a little touch of paint, and the wig, and it'll be different, you'll see."

"Maybe."

"This is still a bad idea," Z told him calmly, and Ryan scowled.

"Just the execution of it," he said. "Actually, the plan is _perfect_. You just enjoy my humiliation."

"I enjoy your crazy obsessions," Z said, busying herself at the chest of drawers, then coming over with the dark-curled wig and a terrifying handful of pins. Ryan eyed her warily, and Z pushed him down on the couch. Then she set to digging the pins with more than a little glee into his head. Possibly some of the wig was going on, too, but Ryan was too busy being stabbed to a slow and painful death to pay much attention to that. "This was really the best way you could come up with to spend time with him?" Z said, frowning around two pins held between her lips.

"I'm just – ow – curious," Ryan said defensively. "And we can't talk, because of his stupid uncle and my – my father –"

Z touched his hair quickly, light and soothing, and Ryan drew in a breath. It had been nearly two years, and having his inheritance all to himself, being free of his father's drinking and scandals – that was always going to be a good thing, he knew. It was just – there had been hope there, with his father, at the end, and then it had been taken away so abruptly.

"Anyway," Ryan said. "Since due to the stupid antics of decrepit relatives, I'm not allowed to talk to him properly, even though – family feuds are too Shakespearean even for _my_ taste. I just thought. I thought he was nice."

" _I thought he was nice_ ," Z said in a high, squeaky voice, and fell about laughing when Ryan glared at her. "Sorry," she said, "sorry, I'm totally with you all the way, continue."

Ryan folded his arms, glaring. "I just want to talk to him again," he said, dropping his gaze to his hands in his lap. "I want to – he was interesting. I want to know more about him. And I'm not allowed to talk to him, but – but Miss Georgina Elliot is."

"Uh," Z said. "Hate to tell you this, darling, but no, she isn't."

Ryan turned his head, blinking. "What?"

"Your voice is _never_ going to pass for a girl's," Z told him, pushing his head back into place. "You can't say anything, it'll give you away immediately. We'll have to tell everyone that you're sick, or a mute, or something."

Ryan stared at her in the mirror. "That won't work! The whole purpose of this is so I can talk to him!"

"I thought the purpose was that you could stalk him in a creepy but hopefully endearing way?" Z asked, then laughed, ducking when Ryan flailed out a wild hand at her. "Sorry, okay, sorry. But you can just – just tell me what you want to ask him, and then your gentlemanly brother can do all the talking." She swept him a bow, and Ryan half-smiled.

"Alright," he said. "I guess that'll work."

"Exactly," Z said. Her own husky voice would pass for a man's light tenor fairly easily, Ryan admitted.

She adjusted one last curl, then dragged out a lacquered box of powders and paints. Ryan gave them a dubious look, but closed his eyes meekly when Z told him to. The paints felt odd being applied, cold and foreign, and when Z told him to open his eyes and look up, the little instrument she was using felt perilously close to gouging his eyes. Then she was brushing along his cheek bones with a tiny brush, and, after a hesitation and a long, considering glance, she applied something lightly to his lips. He touched his tongue to it, uncertain of the taste.

Z drew back, gave him another all-over look, then turned away, clattering all her instruments back into the box. "There," she said. "Better?"

Ryan stood and moved in front of the glass again. He sucked in a breath. Somewhere in the last few minutes a girl had emerged out of that awkward, gangly figure. The chestnut locks piled on top of his head, one or two escaping artfully onto his neck and curling against his cheek, transformed his face, framing large eyes dark with anxiety and subtly drawn out with paint, and a reddened mouth that looked somehow fuller, the lower lip trembling a little. The gown, falling in graceful folds, completed by white kid gloves that covered his arms above the elbows, transformed his body from stickish to slim and a little vulnerable.

 _It might just work_ , he thought, afraid to move in case the illusion shattered.

"Yes," he breathed. "I. Thank you, Z."

"Not at all," Z said, flinging herself back onto the sofa. "I still can't believe that you're calling yourself Georgina, though. So unimaginative."

Ryan turned around, narrowing his eyes. "Why?" he asked. "What are you going by? I thought we agreed on Jack."

"No, that's what you said," Z said, and grinned with all her teeth. "I'm going to be much more interesting than that. Also staying true to my roots."

"Z," Ryan began.

"No, no," Z said. "Tonight I'm Zachariah."

" _No_."

"Alright," Z said. "Zeus. I'm going for the Classical tone."

"You're really, really not."

Z grinned. "Zadoc?"

"I'm a girl right now, too," Ryan reminded her. "Technically, I could hit you without dishonour."

Z sighed. "Ryan, you really need to relax," she said. "Just, you know, try and remain calm and collected. I'm not _stupid_ , I'm just teasing."

"Alright, then," Ryan said, turning back to look at himself in the mirror again.

"My name," Z said, sure and easy, "is, of course, Zebadiah Elric Elliot."

She was still laughing when Ryan picked up his skirts and swept out of the room.

*

They didn't need to sneak out of the house, when dusk rolled around and they set out. Z's mother and father were at their estate in the country, and her sister was attending a gathering at an artist friend's house this evening. There were the servants, of course, but all of them were quite used to Miss Elizabeth's quirks and fancies, and fanatically loyal in a way that Ryan found remarkable. (His own father had barely been able to convince servants to stay in a place three months, and his mother had coldly treated every one of them as the silverware thieves she believed each to be.) Hedges, the Bergs' butler, bowed them out with barely a raised eyebrow.

Ryan had spent the intervening forty minutes practising moving about the house. The skirts were distracting, but not impossible to move in, and Z, telling him he was getting off lightly, had barely laced his corset at all, since his waist didn't need tightening and he hadn't anything to make a figure out of no matter how much they laced. The shoes weren't so very bad after all – the heel was of a height with his own evening boots, and it was only that they had less support about the calf, and were of a more delicate cut. The wig, and the small ribboned hat pinned upon it, were more difficult; they added a weight to his head, and a significance to his nods and chin tilts, that he found deeply disconcerting. All in all, though, he was beginning to enjoy himself. It was a shame he couldn't talk, but he thought that he could pull this off.

Now he adjusted his mask, tipping it more firmly into his eyes as he nodded to Hedges. Z turned at the foot of the steps and offered her arm for support, her eyes dancing above her own mask. Ryan grinned, quick and sharp, then shyly ducked his head, accepting her arm. Z laughed and tugged them into a skip for a moment, before they settled into a more sedate stroll along the cobbled street.

"It doesn't matter what ridiculous Christian name you decide to call yourself by, anyway," Ryan said, keeping his voice low for the passersby. "You'll only be Mr Elliot to everybody we introduce ourselves to tonight."

Z raised her eyebrows, squeezing his arm in the crook of her elbow. "Sister, your lack of faith crushes me. You can't think I won't find the opportunity. Dropping a Christian name into conversation is the easiest thing in the world."

Ryan's mouth twitched. "I don't think Zebadiah so much drops into a conversation as it thuds like an anvil."

"I may not go with Zebadiah," Z said, waving that off. "There are other options, you know. I didn't get to them all. I could –"

"If you say Zedekiah, I swear I'll ..."

Actually Ryan couldn't think of anything horrible enough, but it didn't matter: Z clapped her hands together. "I _knew_ there was another Old Testament one I was forgetting!"

"I hate you," Ryan informed her. "I knew I should have waited until Alex got back to do this."

"Oh, shut up," Z said. "You know he'd be just as bad. And besides, we're not speaking his name, remember? Going off on adventures _without us_."

"It is a travesty."

Z sniffed regally. "And we will never forgive him for it," she said, tossing her head.

Ryan quirked his mouth, elbowing her. "That may have been the least masculine gesture _ever made_ by somebody in trousers."

Z frowned, thinking about this. "You're right," she said. "I'm going to forget what I'm doing if I'm still thinking of myself as me." She chewed her lip for a moment. Then she deliberately dropped her shoulders, tucking her free hand into her breast pocket and settling into a loose saunter. Her mouth curved, wicked and warm, with an arrogant tilt at the corner. She'd chosen a simple black domino, cut sharply away at the cheek. It made the panther cant to her stride even more effective.

Ryan leaned away to examine her. "You look like a tom cat got into the cream," he decided.

Z tilted her chin at him. "Baby girl, I _am_ the cream."

Ryan bent double laughing. Z had to hold him up by the arm, leaning her head on his shoulder and pressing her own laughter into silence.

It was a pleasant enough walk to Westminster, and they took sculls there to carry them across the river. Vauxhall Gardens came into sight sooner than Ryan was expecting. He sucked in his breath, attacked with second thoughts. Spencer had remarked in a throwaway fashion that Brendon meant to squire his mother and two of his sisters to the masquerade tonight. Ryan hoped he hadn't changed his mind. He shook his head. They were committed to this now, anyway.

At the garden gates, Z offered Ryan her arm once more, and they stepped inside.

They made a striking entrance. Z looked the most complete gentleman of fashion, lithe and confident, the swagger in her steps designed to make up for her lack of height. Her coat was cinched in at her waist, and her hessians hugged her calves, buffed to a shine. The set of her shoulders made her look smart, and the black domino made her look wicked.

Ryan had chosen a decorated turquoise mask, soft blue feathers stroking his temple. The paint Z had applied about his eyes, and the charcoal darkening his lashes, gave his eyes beneath the mask the dusky appeal of mystery, even in the glass at home. Here in the gardens in the shadows and golden lantern light, surrounded by fantastical costumes and carnival music, he knew the effect must be even better.

They were Miss and Mr Elliot, elegant strangers to London, and they were going to cut a dash tonight; Ryan was determined.

It was already coming down dark, the walks and avenues of the gardens lit with a constellation of golden globes. The rowdy sounds of an orchestra and more than one smaller musical ensemble filtered through the walks, over the laughter and excited shrieks of the small parties in masquerade costume weaving among the trees. Z doffed her hat at the ladies they passed, causing a couple of blushes. Ryan found himself being quizzed by passing rogues; at one point he was so in danger of choking on his own laughter that he had to unfold his fan and hide behind it.

This was possibly the best thing they had ever done. Ryan would have to make sure Z remembered that if she started on about it being a bad idea again. Not that he thought she would; he squeezed her arm and got the most brilliant smile back, her eyes shining under the black half-domino.

"Any sign of Urie?" she asked, leaning close.

Ryan shook his head, looking around again.

"Come on, then," Z said, "let's make for the Grand Quadrangle. Ten to one he'll have secured a box for his sisters, or they'll be dancing or some such. I think I want to dance."

Ryan raised his eyebrows, mindful of the part where he wasn't supposed to speak (it was already chafing). "Oh, what," Z said. "I've practised with you. I can _definitely_ lead; better than you can, probably."

The avenue of trees opened up into a large central space, with festive booths for refreshment set up in two wide semicircles. Ryan and Z had dined before they came, and it looked as though the parties in the booths were beginning to scatter for dancing or trysts in the gardens. The orchestra was in full swing, set up beneath trees hanging with more lanterns. Ryan's eyes skimmed the milling crowd of dancers and over the length of the Quadrangle, stopping with a jerk at a box across the way. Brendon Urie was standing with one foot on the barricade, laughing up at the ladies seated inside. He was facing away from Ryan, but Ryan recognised the set of his shoulders immediately.

His breath came short, and he realised in a rush that he was really going to do this. He was going to find a way to spend some time with Brendon tonight for the first time – or the first time since that interrupted conversation at the Monroe ball last year. And maybe he couldn't talk, and maybe Brendon had to think that he was a lady and a stranger, but Ryan could look at him without making it seem as though he wasn't. He wasn't going to get another chance like this. He curled his fingers into a fist, determined.

Z followed his gaze, making a low, impressed sound under her breath. "Is that him?" she asked, and Ryan nodded quickly. Z cocked her head to the side, and Ryan was willing to bet that she had her eyebrows raised, undeniably sizing Brendon up, mouth curved in a wicked grin. Brendon didn't move in their circles – family feuds were the worst, seriously – and Ryan knew Z had only seen Brendon in passing before, never somewhere she could stop and regard him. Now she wasn't even bothering to be _subtle_ about it, staring blatantly through the crowd. Some of the people around them were already looking, raising their eyebrows at a gentleman obviously checking out another gentleman, and as Ryan watched Brendon himself turned, with the half-curious, half-startled expression of someone realising he was being observed.

 _I hate you_ , Ryan thought, as loud as he could, glaring at Z. _Hate, hate, hate,_ but Z wasn't looking at him, she was tilting her head and smiling, mocking and altogether too _interesting_ for Ryan to feel entirely comfortable.

"Shall we take a stroll, Sister?" Z said. There weren't enough people around them to hide it if Ryan stamped on Z's foot; he settled for scowling at her even as she took his hand and put it under her arm, giving it a little pat. "Come on," she said, smiling and nodding at people as she led them through the crowd. "This'll be fun."

The trouble with Z's idea of fun was that it very rarely fitted with _anybody's_ idea of proper. Most of the time, Ryan liked this about her a lot – especially when he was trying to convince her to indulge in some casual cross-dressing – but not being proper when it came to Brendon Urie had already gotten Ryan in trouble once. He thought it was best that they did things tonight with as much decorum as possible, especially with what felt like such a potentially flimsy disguise. Z, apparently, was of a different mind, and when she reached Brendon she was grinning in an entirely inappropriate manner.

"Brendon Urie," she said, and Ryan bit his lip to keep from groaning aloud.

"I'm sorry," Brendon said, looking politely confused. "I don't believe we've been introduced."

"No," Z agreed cheerfully. "We're new in town. _Your_ name, however, precedes you. Zedekiah Elliot," she added, "is mine. It's a pleasure."

Brendon's eyes widened behind his white half-mask, his mouth twitching. Ryan thought it was entirely ridiculous for him to feel suddenly warm at the way Brendon hid his amusement even when he was obviously surprised and caught off guard.

"Yes, certainly," Brendon said, bowing slightly to Z. Z bowed back, with rather more enthusiasm, and only Ryan's well-timed yank on her elbow kept them from bumping heads. Brendon was smiling a little more freely now, and he looked at Ryan, eyes dark and smiling in a way that made Ryan's breath catch. "And may I presume that this is Mrs Elliot?"

"Oh, no," Z said. "I'm sorry – please allow me to present Miss Georgina Elliot. My sister. We've just come from the country for the season."

"Welcome to the city," Brendon said, smiling crookedly.

Ryan smiled awkwardly and curtseyed, trying to convey _How lovely to meet you, here, for the first time_ , with the angle of his head.

Brendon bowed over Ryan's hand. When he straightened he tilted his head to the side, and Ryan could imagine the raised eyebrow behind his mask. "I feel a little at a disadvantage, knowing only your names when somehow you've managed to hear of me." He sounded especially curious about that, which Ryan supposed was fair: Brendon Urie was not actually a famous name in the city.

"Life in the country can be awful dull," Z said easily. "We get long lists of all the attendees at balls, and who they danced with, and who left early, and who stayed rather too late." She laughed, conspiratorial, and Ryan bit his own lip.

"I shouldn't be surprised at the travelling power of gossip, I suppose," Brendon said dryly. He glanced at Ryan and then looked back, longer, watching Ryan seriously. Ryan tried not to flush. "Are you enjoying your stay, Miss Elliot?"

Ryan stared back at him, helpless. Z said, "You'll forgive my sister her silence, Mr Urie. She has been mute since birth."

"Oh!" Brendon said, eyes wide behind the mask. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to –"

"Nothing to worry about," Z said. "It is an easy enough thing to explain. And certainly it comes up."

"That's terribly sad, though," Brendon said, and looked at Ryan, the corner of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. "It would be nice to talk with you properly."

Ryan was going to complete his disguise absolutely by swooning.

"I can talk to you!" Z said, grinning. She was very close, Ryan was sure, to putting her arm on Ryan's shoulder and leaning on him casually while she talked, which was a bad sign. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"Yes," Brendon said, turning his attention back to her. "A masquerade is always so much more fun than other balls, I think. And the musicians are really talented."

"Oh, aren't they?" Z said. "I noticed when we came in. The fiddle-player –"

"Oh, Miss Geronimo!" Brendon beamed. "She's brilliant, isn't she?" Behind him, a severe gentleman Ryan vaguely recognised from various occasions – including that night at the Monroe ball – cleared his throat, and Brendon's face fell. "I mean," he added, voice thick with reluctance, "it's a very strange occupation for a young woman to choose –"

"I'm going to talk to her," Z decided, ignoring this last. "I didn't know her name. She's fabulous." Brendon darted another look over his shoulder and didn't say anything, but his eyes were dancing, and he was smiling again. Which was all very well, but while Z was making lists of new friends she could shock her mother with, Ryan was standing silently like an idiot and not even finding anything out with it. He shifted, bumping his hip against Z's.

"Oh," Z said, looking a little guilty. "Um. Mr Urie. You enjoy music, then?"

"Yes," Brendon said. "I play, a little. Mostly I leave it to more talented people."

"Really?" Z said. "What do you play?"

"Oh, uh," Brendon said, "piano, mostly. And the harp, and I've dabbled with cello on occasion. I sing, too, but not in polite company."

God, Ryan wanted to hear Brendon sing. He folded his hands in his skirts, trying to look genteel rather than awkward, but mostly just needing something to do. It felt very strange, standing in a _dress_ without saying anything; so different to the balls he attended with Spencer, whispering sly remarks to each other between dances, or the nights he spent with Jon shunning balls in favour of drinking absinthe on rooftops. He didn't know how to _be_ , here, and he knew he only had so long before Z got bored and went off to find the acclaimed fiddle player. God only knew what other trouble she'd run into on the way. Ryan wouldn't even be able to join in properly this time, more was the pity.

He was a little impressed at Z's ability to get into trouble as well as she did, in her normal dress. He wondered how she managed it. The skirts seemed to get everywhere, and he was holding himself straighter than usual, upright and breathing deeply. There was something about this garb he couldn't put his finger on, the feel of the cotton and silk against his skin. The effect of it with the lit-up masquerade and the press of people and _Brendon Urie_ smiling at him was enough to make Ryan feel just slightly light-headed.

"That's an impressive array," Z said, smiling easily. She was playing the part pretty well, Ryan had to admit. Ridiculously, but well. "One would almost think you were aiming for something more than ornamental gentility. Something useful, even. God forbid."

Brendon laughed. "I don't think being able to stumble my way through a few tunes quite counts as useful," he said. "But it's enjoyable. Do you play?"

"Now and again," Z said, waving an absent hand. She slanted a glance at Ryan and Ryan froze, thought, _oh, no, not yet_ , but he couldn't interrupt her, and in any case Z was already saying, "Will you be attending Lady Smith's picnic this coming week?"

Brendon's smile turned polite, stiff in the corners. "I am afraid I am not," he said. "I have a prior engagement."

"Oh, do come," Z said. "It promises to be great fun, and we should certainly like to see you again. Surely your engagement can be rescheduled?"

"Um," Brendon said, and then, lowering his voice, "unfortunately, I am told that Mr Ross may be there, and there is – tension between our families."

"Oh," Z said, eyes wide. "Goodness. Really?"

Brendon shrugged one shoulder, his mouth twisting downward. "Mostly it is the contrivance of relatives now dead or senile," he said. "But it persists enough that ... conversation can be awkward." His mouth twisted, an expression Ryan couldn't quite read.

"How sordid," Z said, smiling, and Brendon laughed.

"Indeed," he said. "My family's dramatic past. I have an idea the original feud was something hopelessly pointless. Still, one must uphold family obligation, or something."

"Right," Z said, nodding. "Well, then, we shall have to take full advantage of our time with you tonight. Although I am a little distracted by the dancing. Do you dance, Mr Urie?"

"With great enjoyment," Brendon said, "though not much skill."

"I find that hard to believe," Z said. Ryan threw her a slightly frantic look – this wasn't on the set of questions they had agreed upon. "Will you show us?"

"All on my own?" Brendon said, smiling, but he darted a quick look at Ryan. Ryan's mouth was dry.

Z smiled. "Mr Urie. May I present my sister as a charming dance partner?"

Ryan felt frozen. He gave Brendon a tiny, weak smile.

Brendon's own smile was warm and bright. "Miss Elliot? Save me from the mortification of dancing on my own?"

Ryan raised his eyebrows. Brendon flushed, ducking his head and laughing a bit, but he held his arm out.

Ryan dipped a curtsey and accepted. His chest felt tight and a bit panicky. He darted a look at Z as they began to move away. She was grinning, her eyes bright, one hip cocked and her hand in her breast pocket. She looked like a pocket-sized _bandido_ , confident and amused, and probably every eye in the place was on her.

Ryan only hoped that would mean they wouldn't be on him as he attempted to dance a minuet from the wrong side. Z was right, they _had_ practised, but Ryan wouldn't have been confident in his ability to remember how to do it even if he _wasn't_ confronted with Brendon Urie, who pretty much made Ryan forget everything ever.

He gulped a breath and concentrated on not passing out.

*

Z watched Ryan and Brendon go with a gleeful feeling in her chest. Ryan would thank her as soon as he had remembered that getting close to Brendon was actually the _point_ of tonight. And if he didn't, Z would still know that she’d sent Ryan Ross off to dance with Brendon Urie in front of five hundred people, and nobody had known.

Now she got to amuse herself, at least until the dance finished and Ryan needed rescuing again. She doffed her hat at Brendon's father, revelling in the frosty stare she got in return, and turned on her heel.

She decided to do as she'd said she would and seek out the acquaintance of the lady violinist. She was playing with a chamber orchestra in one of the smaller podiums, away from the crush of dancers Z had sent Ryan and Brendon to. Z flipped her coat tails out of the way, slipping her fingers into her pockets, and wove her way in that direction.

A lady in a cherry-red hat and tumbled curls caught her eye, and Z tipped her hat, smirking, and moved on. A couple of natty gentlemen swinging fob watches strayed into her path, one of them hitting Z's elbow with the watch as they passed.

"Did you strike me, sir?" Z demanded, swinging about.

The gentleman gave her a cool look. "Terribly sorry," he said. "Didn't see you there."

Z drew herself up, curling her lip. "Do you insinuate that I am _short?_ ".

The gentleman's friend jumped in, looking anxious. "Not at all, only not paying attention to the way, you know. Dreadfully clumsy of us. Do have a good night." He doffed his hat and tugged his friend away.

Z flicked her coat tails out of the way again, her mouth curving as she watched them leave. She strolled on towards the podium. It was all she could do not to crow with glee.

There was a smaller crowd here: ladies seated on outdoor chairs while the gentlemen squiring them leaned on the chair backs, bending to exchange conversation behind spread fans. It had an air of genteel garden party mixed in with intrigue, with the golden lamp-lit tree branches above and the whispers and fantastical costumes below. Z wandered along the outer aisle.

The fiddle player was taking a break, smiling at the young woman refilling her glass of water. Z had begun to make her way over when she saw the other girl.

She was sitting on the railing, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. Her ankles were tucked out of sight, somehow ladylike even though it ought to have been the least ladylike pose in the world. She was watching the cellist, the only member of the small orchestra who was still playing, his head ducked as he went over one of the trickier passages in the piece they had just finished, ignoring the polite clamour of the audience.

Z looked back at the girl on the railing. She was dressed in a demure gown the colour of new spring leaves, her hair smoothed away from her face in soft waves, but her gaze behind her green mask was intent on the cellist, and the fingers of one hand were tapping out a rhythm against her skirt. Z was almost sure it would be a piano accompaniment if you could hear it.

Z moved closer. She was barely conscious of it until she found herself standing beside the girl's perch on the railing.

"Are you enjoying the music?" Z asked. Her voice sounded diffident in her own ears, after all the swaggering she'd been doing.

The girl looked up. "Oh," she said. She smiled. "I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't see you there."

Z liked her voice a lot. She gave a bow, touching her hat. "My name is Elliot. I apologise if I'm intruding on a private thought. It's only that I don't see anybody else here paying attention to the music as you were."

The girl regarded her for a second, then presented her hand. "Tennessee Thomas. And I suppose I was rather rapt. I find it difficult to pay attention to anything else when somebody is playing." She adjusted her mask, flashing a grin at Z.

Z decided that she had absolutely no where else she wanted to be. She leaned against the railing beside Tennessee. "Do you play yourself?"

Tennessee shrugged one shoulder. "Only in drawing rooms." She sounded wistful.

Z knew the feeling. Sometimes it seemed as though her entire life consisted of being called upon to play and sing in an endless parade of drawing rooms, to musically uneducated guests who applauded only because she was wealthy and eligible. Or at least, wealthy enough that a certain degree of ineligibility, like a reputation for cutting a dash in town and causing scandals, didn't matter.

Z couldn't say any of that, and she was in danger of forgetting her role here. Instead she let her mouth curl in a smile, looking away to the chamber orchestra, who had begun to play all together again.

"The curse of gentility," she said. "Would you make yourself something splendid up there on that podium if you weren't a lady, Miss Thomas?" She glanced up at Tennessee, laughing with her eyes, and caught Tennessee's expressive grin.

"Maybe I can't play to raucous crowds at masquerades, but I'm not such a lady, really," Tennessee said. She kicked her feet a little. "My father's a physician. I think there are only so many bones you can help splint and still keep your genteel sensibilities intact."

Z laughed. She took Tennessee's hand, stepping back. "In that case, would you dance with me?"

Tennessee tilted her head. "Here?"

Z gestured with her free hand. "We have music, we have lantern light, I see a glade through the trees. I'd far rather dance here than bump elbows in the pavilion." She frowned. "Is there some buck around here I'll upset by carrying you off?"

Tennessee looked around. "My father, somewhere? I don't know, I just followed the music when we got here."

Z snatched Tennessee's hand to her mouth, pressing a kiss to it. "Come on, then." She tugged Tennessee off her perch.

Tennessee let her, her eyes bright.

"I hope you don't mind me hiding you away like this," Z said as she led Tennessee past the musicians and into the glade beyond. There were hardly any other people there: an older couple taking a stroll, one young man bending to lace his boot before he rejoined the festivities. "I'm just not of a mind to vie for your attention with a hundred other people."

"I think it can be said that you are at an advantage, Mr Elliot," Tennessee said, her voice thick with laughter, and Z beamed at her. She dropped Tennessee's hand to sweep her a bow, and Tennessee dropped into a much neater curtsey than Z could manage, barely rumpling her skirts at all.

"This way, though, I can talk to you more freely," Z said, stepping into the first position. She walked the first measure of the dance side by side with Tennessee, one hand clasping Tennessee's lightly, the other held behind her back. She had to concentrate on keeping her shoulders high; it was much easier to slump without a corset, and Tennessee was already at least half a head taller than her.

"It's a little unnerving to not have to shout," Tennessee agreed, spinning neatly under Z's arm. "Hardly a real ball at all."

"We must make do," Z said. "Your father's a physician, did you say? And he allows you to assist him in his work?"

"He's a military doctor," Tennessee explained, "serving under General Wentworth. My mother died when I was young, and he never much liked the idea of leaving me with an aunt, so I accompanied him on several campaigns. If you _can_ help, in such situations, you must. They are less concerned with proper decorum and education for young ladies, you see." She smiled ruefully. "I'm afraid I don't count as much of a lady at all."

"I think you're delightful," Z said decisively. "And clever, too. You can mend broken bones, then. What else?"

Tennessee laughed, picking up her skirts to skip in a small circle around Z. Some of her hair was falling out from the pins; loose, fair wisps that framed her face. Z was a little transfixed.

"I can bring down a fever fairly well," Tennessee said. "Remove a bullet, and stitch up the wound. I'm a dab hand at bandages by now." She winked at Z, twirling easily back into Z's hold. "And my bedside manner is impeccable."

It was kind of hard to be a gentleman. Z thought of half a dozen _hilarious_ responses, none of which were even remotely appropriate right now. "How fascinating," she settled on, regretfully. "That is an interesting life you've been leading, Miss Thomas."

"Only from the outside," Tennessee said. "Anyhow, tell me of yourself. I don't believe I've seen you before. I am almost sure I would remember."

"No," Z said. "My sister and I are only recently arrived from the countryside. This is our first great city extravaganza."

"No wonder you prefer dancing away from the crowd," Tennessee said sympathetically. "I suppose this must be quite overwhelming for you. What part of the country have you come up from?"

Z froze, stumbling over the next step of the dance. "Oh," she said, trying to come up with a place she'd spent enough time in during the last five years to be convincing about. She came up blank: Z didn't spend nearly enough time in the country. "Actually, until recently I was travelling, in, uh. In India!"

"Oh!" Tennessee's face lit up. " _Really_? Where? My father and I spent quite some time in India; sometimes I miss it dreadfully. The sun shines so pale here."

"What a coincidence," Z said weakly. "I was in, um." She thought rapidly, calling up details from some of Alex's letters. "In Madras." She prayed she'd remembered the name correctly.

Tennessee actually stopped to clap her hands in glee. "My father and I kept a house there!" she said. "Oh, how lovely. Did you have much opportunity to explore the fort? Or to visit any of the temples? The Kapaleeshwarar Shiva Temple is quite awe-inspiring, don't you think?"

"Um," Z said. "Yes. I mean – we should compare experiences at some later point, when I'm not concerned with tripping you over. Perhaps I'll see you again while I'm in town?"

"I'd like that," Tennessee said, smiling. "Are you here long?"

"A short time," Z said, with a pang of regret. "We're staying with our aunt, Lady Berg, or really with our cousin Lady Elizabeth."

"I know of Lady Elizabeth," Tennessee said, with the knowing smile that almost always accompanied Z's name. Z found that she didn't mind it nearly as much when Tennessee did it; there was a brightness in her eyes that wasn't even slightly smug.

The music finished with a flourish, and Z took a reluctant step backwards. "Thank you for the dance," she said.

"Thank _you_ , sir," Tennessee said, and curtseyed again, still smiling at Z. They looked at each other quietly for a moment, and then the musicians started up again, and Tennessee sighed. "I love this tune."

Z held out her hand without thinking and Tennessee laughed, taking it without hesitation. Z sent her spinning out again.

*

At first the only things Ryan could concentrate on were the steps of the dance. It was a cotillion, and Ryan had been dancing the cotillion since he was ten years old, but that almost made it worse – the steps were all backwards to where his feet wanted to go, and it was twice as confusing as dancing something unfamiliar would have been.

At least it meant Ryan wasn't so hyperaware of Brendon's fingertips at his waist, Brendon's hand grasping Ryan's own to lead him out and back in. It wasn't until the last measure that Ryan looked up and met Brendon's eyes.

Brendon was watching him, dark-eyed and queerly transfixed. Colour rose to his cheeks as Ryan gazed at him, and Brendon swallowed, ducking his head. They stepped away as the dance ended, Ryan remembering to dip into a curtsey while Brendon bowed.

Brendon cleared his throat. "Another dance?"

Ryan jumped a little, catching himself simply gazing at Brendon, and nodded, curtseying again before Brendon led him back into the dance.

This time it was a waltz, and it was easier; Ryan didn't need to count out the measures under his breath, although he still needed to pay more attention to his steps than was comfortable.

"You dance so seriously," Brendon said. The words were said with an impulsive air. He shook his head, his gaze seeking out Ryan's again; he was half smiling and half in earnest. "I feel as though this dance must be much more important than I knew, and you'll be judging me on my form at the end."

Ryan gave him a helpless smile. _No_ , he signed, shaking his head. He waved a rueful hand at his feet, _I'm minding my steps_. A curl escaped from its pin, tumbling over Ryan's forehead as he looked back up. He lifted a hand to move it away, but Brendon stopped him.

"Here," he said, sounding hoarse. "You can't see to fix it, but I can."

There was a moment where they were the stillest point in the world, the clamour and sway of the waltz twirling about them, and Brendon's hand gentle on Ryan's hair. Ryan felt as though he could feel the heat of Brendon's fingers even though his gloves, every touch somehow charged. Brendon gazed at Ryan, his lashes a shadow against his eyelids. He was biting his lip. Ryan felt as though his breath was crushing his chest; he gazed back and the moment stretched on.

Brendon let his breath out, a soft laugh escaping, and Ryan felt him tuck the curl back into place. Then Brendon's arm came lightly around Ryan's waist once more and they eased back into the dance.

Ryan was relieved and disappointed at once. He hadn't thought he would get this close to Brendon; hadn't thought he would be this affected if he did. Ryan had only wanted the chance to meet Brendon Urie when he wasn't Ryan Ross; he hadn't been prepared for how overwhelming it would be. He _really_ hadn't been prepared for dancing or long glances or Brendon's hand which was still burning sensitive points against Ryan's waist, through Brendon's gloves and Ryan's dress and all of its layers and corsetry.

Ryan ducked his head, hiding his face against Brendon's shoulder, and breathed.

"Your kind of silence is dangerous," Brendon said quietly, beneath the chatter of the dance. He took a long breath and let it out again, shuddery against Ryan's neck. "It makes me forget the polite distances I'm supposed to keep up, with questions about your mother and your home and you local parish."

Ryan shivered; he felt as though he was dancing as an automaton, no conscious direction from his head at all. Probably that was a good thing.

"It means I will either tell you things I shouldn't about myself," Brendon said, his voice only just audible, "or I'll forget that I don't already know you past the need for words."

The dance ended. They stepped back once more. Ryan stumbled, unsteady on his feet, and Brendon looked concerned. Ryan cast around for something to distract his attention from how near two dances had brought Ryan to – to passing out, or something equally mortifying. He lifted his hand, fluttering it at his throat.

Brendon's eyes widened in understanding. "Oh!" he said. "A drink?"

Ryan nodded. Brendon looked determined. "Of course," he said. "There are refreshments in my sisters' booth; I'll get you a glass."

He twined his hand through Ryan's, leading him through the crowd.

The mention of Brendon's sisters had made Ryan wonder guiltily if he'd been keeping Brendon from his proper duties: he was there to squire them, wasn't he? Although his father was here too, so maybe not. There was no sign of either the girls or their mother and father when Brendon and Ryan reached the booth, anyway, and Brendon didn't seem concerned that they were gone.

"Mother's probably clamped onto Captain Pilkard's party," Brendon confided, vaulting over the barrier. "She's nearly got my sister engaged to him; it should only take one more night like this."

His back was to Ryan as he said the last, pouring champagne from a bottle on the table at the rear of the booth. Now he came back with two flutes, one of which he gave to Ryan. He nearly tripped over the barrier getting out again, and his cheeks looked warm as he presented the glass. Ryan rolled his eyes a little, grinning.

"Would you like to dance again?" Brendon asked, self-conscious.

Ryan hesitated. Part of him wanted to go on dancing all night, and another part was sure it was much more dangerous than he'd meant tonight to be. A third, and increasingly insistent, part of him was focusing on the pinch of his tightly laced slippers, the unfamiliar cut beginning to wear unbearably now that he was away from the dance floor. He gestured to his feet, apologetically.

"Your shoes?" Brendon guessed, looking sympathetic.

Ryan grimaced in agreement, taking a gulp of his champagne.

"I did wonder if your shoes were pinching," Brendon confided, a low laugh in his voice.

Ryan shot him a look, his eyes narrowed beneath his mask.

Brendon looked alarmed. "I mean," he said. "You looked – of course you dance beautifully. Very – definitely graceful, I didn't mean to imply –"

Ryan gazed for a moment longer, his mouth tight and hurt. Brendon opened his mouth again, obviously about to try for another apology, and Ryan lost his poise and collapsed into soundless laughter. It nearly killed him to keep it silent; his shoulders shook and his drink slopped over the rim of the glass.

Brendon's shoulders relaxed, all his breath escaping in relief. "Oh my God," he said.

Ryan mimed out Brendon's alarm, the frantic hand gestures and wide eyes, and collapsed into laughter again.

Brendon was laughing too, weakly. "I don't think I ever want to see you actually offended, Miss Elliot," he said. "You were far too good at that."

Ryan was aware that a good bit of his hilarity was the emotional tension of the dance and the disguise and Brendon looking at him so much. He smiled beatifically at Brendon, taking another gulp of his drink, another tremor of laughter shaking him as he sipped.

Brendon took a breath, clearly still regaining his composure. "That," he said, "is unfair too. That you can laugh and drink champagne without snorting the bubbles up your nose. That was the chief cause of my suffering at my parents' dinner parties growing up."

Ryan looked up at him, pressing a hand to his smile.

"My mother never felt it was quite a becoming thing for company," Brendon said thoughtfully. Then he grinned. "Which, speaking of, we seem to be surrounded by the damned stuff at the moment. What shall we do?"

Ryan liked that it didn't seem to occur to him that Miss Elliot might be offended by his language; or that they, as strangers, might have spent enough time together this evening. The thought made him pause, suddenly conscious of the time. He should check in with Z. He'd dragged her here, and if she'd become uncomfortable he owed it to her to take her home. Or let her take him home: this cross-dressing thing was confusing.

Brendon saw him casting around. "Oh," he said. "Do you wish to return to your brother?"

Ryan looked back at him, biting his lip as he nodded. (Lied.) (Sort of lied. He _was_ a little eager to be away from Brendon, so that he could think again, but at the same time when this evening was done it would be done forever. Even with everything, Ryan hadn't been prepared for how desperately he didn't want that to be true.)

His expression must have been a complicated one. Brendon stared at him for a moment, his gaze dark and caught. Then he shook his head, holding out his arm. "He said he was going to speak to Miss Geronimo, didn't he?" Brendon said. "Let me take you there."

When they reached the small pavilion, however, Miss Geronimo was playing a spirited solo and Z was nowhere to be seen. Ryan frowned, vaguely irritated. She really ought to have been checking in on _him_ ; he was the one in danger of falling in love with Brendon Urie.

The thought had crossed his mind before Ryan could stop it. He heard himself make a startled, sick little sound, his stomach clenching. He would have found it hilarious if it hadn't been so sharp inside.

Brendon swore. "Are you okay? Here –" He led Ryan quickly out of the pavilion. "It's too close in here, come out where you can breathe."

Ryan had got over the pained second of shock by this time, and he was mostly feeling ridiculous. And a bit as though he'd been hollowed out. He gave Brendon an embarrassed smile. _Falling in love_ wasn't allowed. That wasn't part of tonight's _deal_.

Brendon was still looking at him carefully. "I think you should stay out among the trees," he said. "And if we walk a bit, we may find Mr Elliot." He extended his arm, and Ryan rested his hand on it. There was the same tingle of consciousness, the breathless feeling of being near, but Ryan wasn't going to think about it.

Probably, he decided as they began to wind their way into the shelter of a lane lit with more golden lantern globes, it was just the mood of tonight, anyway. They said there was going to be a fireworks display, later. Nobody could be held accountable for his heart on an evening that included fireworks. Things would dissipate in the morning, when Ryan wasn't Miss Elliot and Brendon wasn't wearing a damnably attractive domino, one boyishly tousled lock falling over his eye. This wouldn't be real anymore in the morning.

*

Ryan wasn't really sure what he was going to do if they couldn't find Z. He supposed that eventually Brendon would have to return to his family, but he didn't think Brendon would leave a lady on her own, either. It was going to be difficult to organise and awkward to communicate, and Ryan was starting to get annoyed at Z. Best friends shouldn't be allowed to just up and disappear when you were in danger of – well. Probably the best strategy was just not to think about it.

"There are fewer people around here," Brendon said, as they wandered along the path, through the long shadows. "But I have a feeling your brother would stand out even in the crowds back there, if he'd been present." He grinned at Ryan, and Ryan couldn't help but smile back. It helped that Z wasn't a girl tonight, or at least not one that the society matrons could disapprove of, but it didn't feel like Brendon was mocking her, either.

"Besides," Brendon continued, quieter, "it's kind of – nice out here. With, um. Just us."

Ryan had stopped moving, he realised belatedly, standing fixed in place and staring at Brendon. He could feel the colour rising on his cheeks, but he couldn't quite look away, and Brendon's mouth was slightly parted, like he had been caught unawares.

Low laughter reached them from further down the path, and Ryan started, turning to see a couple approaching. Panic darted through him, and he wished Z would appear out of nowhere to complete his disguise again. Brendon ducked his head and smiled; touched Ryan's arm and started them walking again.

"Well, I mean," Brendon said, "for certain definitions of 'just us'."

Ryan turned and smiled at Brendon, and Brendon laughed. When Ryan looked up, the two figures were much closer than before, and Ryan's heart almost skipped a beat. _Fuck_ , he thought, and then Jon Walker had reached them, with Cassie on his arm, nodding easily at them. Ryan tried to subtly press himself a little closer to Brendon's side, holding his fan up to his face and staring at the ground. He loved Jon, he did, but Jon wouldn't know discretion if it bit him, and Ryan felt suddenly clumsy and obvious in his dress, too tall, hands too big, face too recognisable.

"Hello, Brendon," Jon said. "Been a while."

"Hey," Brendon said, grinning. "This is an unexpected honour. I thought you weren't much for these things?"

"He's accompanying me," Cassie said, looking amused. "He's forced himself into a suit for the occasion. You may even notice the lack of stubble."

"My God," Brendon said, laughing a little. "What will happen next?"

"You never know," Jon said. "I'm a settled man, these days. Everything is new."

"Indeed." Brendon cleared his throat. "You must forgive me my rudeness – allow me to introduce Miss Georgina Elliot."

Ryan drew in a deep breath and risked raising his eyes.

"Charmed, Miss Elliot." Jon bowed. "Jonathan Walker, at your service – and may I present my bride, the new Mrs Cassandra Walker?"

Cassie laughed, swatting Jon on the shoulder with her closed fan. "Are you going to get tired of doing that any time soon?"

"Never," Jon said, beaming at her.

Cassie's eyes were sparkling, and Jon was smiling down at her, and Ryan drew in a breath of relief. They were too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to him. There was a chance that he'd gotten away with this.

"I haven't wished you happy yet," Brendon said, grinning. "I heard the wedding was a lovely affair."

"Yes," Jon said, looking up. "Small and –"

"Quite perfect," Cassie finished, turning her ring on her finger.

"Certainly quiet, at any rate," Jon said, laughing. "Even with Ryan and Z there."

And Ryan was back in hot water again. He stared at his feet, willing Brendon to move on.

"Ah," Brendon said. "Yes. Ryan Ross does seem to be followed by adventure."

"Dogged by it, even," Jon said dryly. "It was a mercy any of us escaped unscathed."

"It did help that Alex is currently abroad, I think," Cassie added.

"True," Jon agreed. "Ryan and Z were practically in mourning without him."

Brendon scowled. "Oh, Greenwald," he said, scoffing, and Ryan stiffened, not quite able to help it. It wasn't Alex's fault that his hair was unfashionably long, or if it was then it shouldn't be a fault at all, and anyway the rumours that were spread about him were entirely unfair. Alex was as far from a rake as Ryan could imagine, but he was friendly to everyone – and then Z had gotten caught climbing through his window one night, which had done a lot to seal both of their reputations.

"Careful, Brendon," Jon said, shaking his head and looking far too amused. "Jealousy isn't a good look on anyone."

"Well," Brendon said quickly, "it was lovely running into you. We must be on our way, though. "

Jon grinned, his eyes sparkling. "Uh huh. Goodnight, Brendon. Miss Elliot, it was a pleasure."

Ryan curtseyed as Cassie bid a cheerful goodnight, already tucking her arm back into Jon's and leaning her head against his shoulder as they passed.

"Jon and I lived close to one another when we were boys," he told Ryan. "We move in different circles now, but he's a good sort, despite some of the company he keeps."

Ryan couldn't help but scowl.

"Oh, no," Brendon said quickly, "I'm not speaking of your cousin. I don't know Lady Elizabeth, but she seems a fun sort. It's – Jon Walker's friends are more bohemian than bad, I guess. Alexander Greenwald, and – do you know Ryan Ross? He's a close friend of your cousin's, I believe."

Ryan's heart was caught in his throat. He just managed to shake his head.

"He's – a little strange," Brendon continued, smiling briefly at Ryan, "but I had the opportunity to speak to him once, and for an evening he was – not at all as bad as people make him out to be."

Ryan couldn't quite make out his expression. He tried not to stare, willing Brendon to speak more about it.

Instead, Brendon laughed a little and shook his head. "Onwards?"

Ryan smiled, wondering if Brendon was honestly expecting him to demand in mime to be taken back and left alone. He pressed Brendon's arm, just a little.

Brendon ducked his head, his cheeks flushed. "Well, then," he said, and led Ryan on down the path. Ryan was privately starting to doubt there was any chance of their finding Z; they were drawing into the quieter parts of Vauxhall Gardens, the sound of music fading behind them, and he doubted Z would want to be anywhere that was even slightly cut off from the action. He didn't want to go back, though. He wanted to stay here, Brendon holding his arm, and pretend to be someone Brendon could look at the way he was, like Ryan had done something magical and brilliant without saying a word.

He shivered, and Brendon said, "Are you cold?"

Ryan glanced at him and shook his head, lips pressed tight.

Brendon frowned. "Your dress is quite thin – it's getting darker back here, you're sure you're not –" He reached out and touched Ryan's arm, light on the skin where Ryan's gloves ended, and Ryan shivered again, couldn't help it. He could feel his cheeks heating, and when he looked up Brendon was staring at him. Ryan swallowed, and took a few quick steps down the path, dragging Brendon forward until Brendon started moving again.

"Possibly we won't find your brother tonight," Brendon said after a moment, voice low. Ryan risked another look at him. Brendon's face was in shadows, and Ryan couldn't see him properly. "Do you have any other family here?"

Ryan shook his head.

Brendon said, "A carriage?"

Ryan shook his head again.

"Maybe," Brendon said, slowly, "you'll let me escort you home. I can – if it is close by, we could walk, or maybe hire a sedan chair if," he shot Ryan a small smile, "if your shoes are still pinching." He looked at Ryan. "Would that be acceptable?"

Ryan drew in a breath, and nodded.

"Rank insolence!" someone said, and knocked into Ryan heavily, pushing him off the path. Brendon jumped with Ryan, wrapping a protective arm around Ryan's waist, opening his mouth, but the men who had bumped into them stormed past without stopping. " _Really_ ," the first man continued, "the _youth_ of today –" and Ryan blinked. This was why he didn't come to balls that often, he remembered, catching his breath. There were inevitably the kind of people there who hated him just for not being old, or for not pretending to be old.

"Are you alright?" Brendon said, breathless, and Ryan realised that they were standing closer than ever before, off the path in the shelter of a large tree, branches spread up and around them. He blinked at Brendon and nodded, but Brendon didn't let go of him; his grip tightened, if anything, and Ryan was caught in the circle of Brendon's arms.

"I'm being horribly forward," Brendon said, voice rough, "but you keep looking at me like that, and it's, it's a little hard to keep my head."

Ryan stared at him, and Brendon looked away, mouth twisting down. He looked as though he was about to step away, and Ryan couldn't deal with that, not tonight. He only had tonight. He leaned in, instead, closing the tiny distance between them, and pressed his mouth uncertainly to Brendon's.

Brendon breathed in sharply. Ryan adjusted a little, their noses brushing, their masks catching against each other as he kissed the curve of Brendon's mouth. Brendon's eyes were closed tight, and for a moment Ryan wondered if this was it, Brendon was going to push him away and lead him stiffly away for a lecture on the proper behaviour of ladies – or, God, what if Brendon decided that a lady would never do this, what if he leapt backward and cried _Aha!_ and Ryan would be destroyed, no matter the inheritance his father had left behind. He knew exactly how dangerous this was.

Then Brendon sighed, and Ryan realised that it could be something very different. Brendon's eyelids lifted, and he raised his hand, pushing his mask up and away, his hand coming back to Ryan's waist with the mask dangling by its ribbons from his fingers. Ryan curved his hand around Brendon's cheek, stroking at the skin of his temple and down to his chin, tilting Brendon's mouth up, and Brendon reached up to hold on to Ryan's wrist. His eyelashes were fluttering very slightly against his skin, and Ryan wanted to stare at him like this, skin so vulnerable with the mask gone. Ryan wished he could talk, wished he could ask: _Have you ever done this before_?

Brendon opened his mouth and Ryan pressed light, darting kisses against it. His own mask was still pressing into Brendon's cheek, but Brendon didn't seem to mind, didn't try to push it away – seemed to know Ryan needed it there. Brendon's fingers dug into Ryan's waist and Ryan gasped and licked into Brendon's mouth.

He was doing a horrible job at staying in character, he knew – Z would be disgusted – but he couldn't bring himself to care, especially when Brendon made a startled, stammering sound, low in his throat. Ryan closed his eyes and sank against Brendon, glad for Brendon's steadying hand at his waist. He was still shivering, and his knees felt weak. Ladies were probably allowed to swoon, he managed to think, then suddenly he was leaning back against the tree and Brendon was pressed up all against him and Ryan was revising his thoughts about Brendon's previous experience, because he was being kissed more thoroughly than he had been in a long, long time.

Brendon broke away, finally, chest rising and falling, two spots of colour high on his cheeks. Ryan was struggling to breathe through the damned corset, though he was rather glad for the restricting layers of his skirts. Brendon stammered, "I didn't – I'm sorry, I shouldn't," and Ryan reached for him again, pulled Brendon in and made a breathless, grateful noise when Brendon kissed him again, winding his fingers in Brendon's hair. Brendon moved back a tiny bit, frowning, and said, "Did you just –" and Ryan kissed him again, to ward off any more awkward questions.

Eventually Brendon stumbled backwards and stroked at Ryan's face with a burning hand, tucking a curl of hair behind his ear. Ryan turned his mouth into Brendon's hand helplessly, nuzzling against his palm. _Brendon_ , he mouthed, Brendon's skin salty and hot against his lips, and Brendon said, "I should, I should get you home."

Ryan looked up at him. Brendon was pale and looked uncertain again, but his eyes fucking _burned_ when they rested on Ryan, and it was all Ryan could do to keep from lolling back against the tree once more.

"That is," Brendon said, "if you are not too dreadfully offended, at least."

Brendon's hand was still warm on Ryan's hip. Ryan leaned forward and put his arms around Brendon's neck for a moment. He tucked his face against Brendon's neck, above the high collar, hiding his face there. _Please_ , he mouthed, and Brendon's hands tightened, holding Ryan right there.


	2. Chapter 2

When the orchestra took another break, Z decided she wasn't going to give Tennessee a chance to escape after all. She stepped back, bowing gracefully, and as she straightened she offered her arm to Tennessee as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and when Tennessee accepted began to lead her along the path away from the pavilion. Tennessee crinkled her nose in amusement and let herself be led.

"I've been thinking," Z said, steering Tennessee around a shrub that trailed shadowy leaves into the path, "and I don't know that your helping your father to minister to the sick and wounded excuses you from ladylike sensibilities at all." She gave Tennessee a severe look, lifting one hand to tilt her mask. "A lady should be an angel of mercy to those in need, you know; I'm sure I've read that somewhere. Perhaps in the novels of Mrs Radcliffe?"

Tennessee looked serious. "I shouldn't think so. Mrs Radcliffe's heroines know to faint at the mention of blood."

They turned a corner in the path, entering a new and even more secluded way, hung with the ever-present fairy-like lanterns. Z gave Tennessee a sceptical look. "Really? I'd forgotten that." She waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. My point is that you'll have to do more to persuade me that you aren't the very image of a demure Almacks belle; I'm not convinced." She grinned. "Tell me something outrageous, Miss Thomas. No, better: tell me three."

Tennessee narrowed her eyes at Z. Then her lip curled in a smile and she held up three fingers, taking up the challenge. "One," she said, counting off on her first finger, "The first time I met the Duke of Wellington I had just been in the sickroom, and I hadn't had an opportunity to thoroughly wash my hands. He offered to kiss my hand in greeting, of course, and I went entirely blank on ways to refuse." She slanted a look at Z. "His _face_ ," she confided, "The way he wrinkled his nose ..."

Z choked into laughter, tugging Tennessee closer by the arm and making her laugh and sway.

Tennessee straightened her spine, holding up her hand once more. "Two," she said, "I once pretended to be my own maidservant at an inn, come on ahead with the porter, because my maid had come down with the cholera and I'd had to leave her behind, and I didn't want to scandalise the aunt I was visiting by travelling without a female companion."

Z lifted the hand Tennessee was counting with, pressing another kiss to it because she couldn't help herself. "That was very considerate of you," she agreed. "I hope your aunt appreciated the gesture."

Tennessee pressed her lips together over a laugh and didn't elaborate.

"Three," Tennessee said, gently drawing her hand back, "I waltzed with a stranger in a glade at Vauxhall, and let him ask the most ridiculous questions." She bit her lip. "There; your turn."

Listening to herself talk was one of Z's favourite pastimes. She was a little shocked to realise that she would have preferred to continue listening to Tennessee talk, just now.

Oh well. She tilted her head, considering for a moment telling Tennessee something true. She discarded the idea a moment later; she was quite aware that every scandal Lady Elizabeth Berg had ever caused was well known around town.

"I killed a man in Vienna, of course," she said airily instead. "He was a rake, and a wastrel, you know how it goes. You wouldn't have liked him."

"I suppose it's as well you killed him, then," Tennessee said gravely.

They passed another party, two young ladies whispering behind fans while their chaperone lagged behind; Z tipped her hat, her smile tigerish, and one of the ladies bit her lip and turned to gaze after them.

"I was almost killed myself, in Moscow," Z said, her voice even more of a swaggering purr than before. Good _Goddamn_ , she loved this role. She grinned at Tennessee, delighted that she was so easily picking up the joke. "Cheating at cards in a gaming hell, you know; if I hadn't a quick hand to the draw I'd not be standing here."

"Mm," Tennessee said, drawing her brows together in concern. "I hope you weren't cheating against any rakes or wastrels?"

"Oh, every one of them," Z said. She flipped her coattails behind her, taking a more secure hold on Tennessee's elbow. "Three," she said, and two gentlemen turned into their path, one of them bumping against Tennessee and knocking her elbow into Z's.

He gave her a brief nod of apology, already talking to his companion again.

"I beg your _pardon_ , sir," Z growled. She took hold of his coat sleeve and he spun around.

"The devil?" he demanded.

Z let go of Tennessee's arm, allowing her to rub her elbow. "I believe you knocked into my companion," Z said.

The two men looked to be in their early thirties, well-heeled and affecting immaculate whiskers. Both had abandoned their masks, one dangling his from his fingers with a careless air. The other, who had bumped Tennessee, gave her a glance up and down, taking in the elegant but simple cut to her dress and her flyaway hair. "Your pardon, ma'am," he said dismissively.

Z tilted her mask, directing a slit-eyed stare at him. "Your sincerity overwhelms her," she said. "Is this your manner with every lady? You must be terribly popular with them."

Tennessee made a small choking sound.

The gentleman drew himself up, his upper lip flaring. "You walk on perilous ground, boy."

Z linked her hands behind her back, sauntering two or three steps so that he was forced to turn to face her. "My favourite path," she said, a light edge of danger in her voice. "I am asking you to apologise appropriately to Miss Thomas."

"Er," Tennessee said.

The gentleman's companion plucked at his sleeve. "Enough, Rotham," he said uneasily. "This is nothing but a farce."

Mr Rotham curled his lip again. "My friend is right, pipsqueak." He smoothed down the sleeve Z had disarrayed, beginning to turn away. "I've no interest in you."

Z drew herself up, her eyes flashing. "What did you insinuate about my height, you cur?" she demanded. "You're lucky I don't strike you down where you stand."

"Oh my God," Tennessee said in a very quiet voice.

"You!" Rotham cried, his face flushing again. "You couldn't reach me, boy."

Z drew out a handkerchief in an impetuous motion, dashing it upon the ground. Rotham stared at it for a second, shocked.

Z drew herself up once more. "My name is Elliot," she said, breathless and icy, "and I am calling you out, sir."

"You dare," Rotham said blankly. His friend pressed a hand to his forehead, groaning.

Z lifted her chin. "The morning after tomorrow. Green Park at dawn. Name your second, so that my man will know whom to call upon."

Rotham stared at the handkerchief for a moment longer. Then he lifted his face, tearing off his mask. His face below it was mottled and furious. "My second is Winterworth, here," he said icily. He bowed to Tennessee, his expression vicious. "I wish you joy of your companion, ma'am; I fear you won't be able to enjoy his presence for long."

Tennessee had a gloved hand pressed to her mouth. She stared at him, nodding jerkily, then shook her head as she realised what she was agreeing with.

Mr Winterworth groaned again as his friend swept off. He shook his head, but drew out a calling card and presented it to Z. "Your man may reach me here," he said. "If he must, I suppose." He doffed his hat at Tennessee and followed Rotham up the path, hurrying to keep up.

Z was still buzzing with adrenaline. She turned to Tennessee. "There," she drawled, feeling something fierce and alive in her veins. She grinned, tigerish again. "I hate it when life gets dull."

Tennessee pressed her hand harder against her mouth. Then she dropped it. "What did you _do_ that for?" she asked, hushed.

Z shrugged, one shouldered, and offered her arm for Tennessee to hold. Tennessee took it, hesitantly, and Z gave her a sweet, exultant smile. "You should forget you heard that, probably," she said. "Shall I take you back to your family, or would you like to dance some more?"

Tennessee ducked her head, the mask entirely shielding her expression with her mouth in shadow. "I think I had best get home," she said. "I have a great deal to think about."

Z smiled again, the zing in her veins becoming something sweeter. "Don't think too hard," she advised. "It's never worth it in the long run."

*

Mr Elliot had said that they were staying with the Bergs, and when Brendon checked with Miss Elliot that that was the direction he should take her, her mouth quirked and she dropped her head, but she nodded.

"I can still get you a sedan chair," Brendon said. She shook her head immediately. He bit down on his smile, letting himself wonder if she wanted to make the evening last as much as he did.

This was foolishness of the worst kind, Brendon knew. It was foolish to spend a whole evening in the company of a girl he couldn't have a conversation with; foolish to start interpreting her different expressions as though they were entire conversations; foolish to kiss her; foolish to walk her home. It was just, he thought, that no one had ever willingly spent so much time in his company before – certainly not any of his sisters' fashionable acquaintances who took in his bumbling and his bad jokes and his too loud laugh, and thought _No, thank you._ No one had ever looked at him and raised their eyebrows in a way that made it very clear how much of an idiot they thought he was, and wanted to stay anyway.

Brendon was just a little infatuated – in a way he'd only been once before.

"Are you sure your shoes aren't pinching?" he asked.

She wrinkled her nose a little, smiling, and shrugged one shoulder. A moment later her foot turned on a cobble stone and she gasped, clutching at his arm with her other hand. She was laughing again, silently, when she tilted her face up to him.

"It's beyond me how women can walk in those things at all," Brendon confided, enjoying the way she was now walking just a little closer to him.

She pulled back to cast a sceptical glance down at his own boots, fashionably heeled thanks to Spencer's influence, and raised her eyebrows.

He flushed, laughing. "Yes, all right, but at least I could run in these if I had to. You," he said with certainty, "would break your neck."

She just smiled, leaning back in against him as they walked.

Brendon was conscious of the warmth of her, the achingly perfect way she fit against him, the meandering of their footsteps. Carriages and other pedestrians passed them, lanterns swinging, and Brendon didn't even bother to look up to see if there was anybody he knew. He felt drugged, the flickering light of street lamps and the night around them and the girl on his arm.

They did at last reach the square the Berg residence fronted, though. She dropped his arm, slowly, and looked at him.

Brendon wanted to do something, say something, more than a 'good night' could express. He darted over to a wall decked in climbing roses and went up onto his toes to pick the most perfect of them. A thorn caught him through his glove, spearing deep, and he hissed. When he turned to present it to Miss Elliot with a gallant bow, though, she smiled, ridiculously delighted, and Brendon forgot to notice the ache in his thumb.

She held it in her hands for a moment, turning it over and looking at him, a slim figure, the blue of her gown half shrouded by her cloak. Then she shook her head and turned away – and then her feet were light on the steps and she was disappearing through the door the butler held open for her.

She hadn't said a word or made a sign, and Brendon hadn't either. It came to him that he was holding his breath. He let it out in a rush, subsiding back against a wall.

Then, like the idiot he so clearly was, he lingered a little way down the street, on the opposite side of the road so he had a clear view of the windows of the house. It wasn't much like it was in novels; he couldn't see anybody through them, let alone any winsome silhouettes.

His finger was still throbbing. Brendon swallowed, remembering Miss Elliot's expression when she took it, and the way she had swayed forward for a moment.

In any case, his heart was still pounding too rapidly for him to go home and attempt to sleep. He may as well lurk here like a lovesick fool as go anywhere else.

Only a little time had passed when he was startled out of his own thoughts by the sound of a carriage clattering up the street. It stopped in front of the Berg house, and Mr Elliot climbed down the steps with a swagger, thumbs hooked in his belt. Brendon raised an eyebrow. He wondered what Mr Elliot had gotten up to all evening that had him looking so pleased with himself.

Mr Elliot turned around, said something to the coach driver and laughed loudly, counting money out from a small purse. Then the Berg house's door opened, light flooding out, and Brendon blinked in surprise as Ryan Ross came half-stumbling out onto the pavement, catching himself on Mr Elliot's shoulders.

Brendon supposed he was a friend of Lady Elizabeth Berg's, so it wasn't _that_ strange, but it was still startling.

" _Z_ ," Ryan said, and Brendon took a moment to remember Mr Elliot's given name before he laughed softly to himself. They had their heads bent together, talking quickly; Ryan waved a hand around, looking distressed, then he screwed up his face and said, far too loudly, "A _duel?_ "

Mr Elliot laughed, putting his hand in a comforting way on Ryan's shoulder. Ryan was clutching at Mr Elliot's forearms, and the streetlight shone full upon his face; Brendon could see his frantic expression, the nervousness there, his red mouth –

Brendon straightened. _No_ , he thought, just as Ryan tilted his hand so that Brendon could see the rose Ryan was holding as if it was the most precious thing on earth. Brendon clutched onto the gate he was leaning against, feeling dizzy, and Mr Elliot shook his head at Ryan and grinned.

 _No_ , Brendon thought again, and then Mr Elliot was leading Ryan back inside. Ryan stopped halfway to the door, turning around and looking straight at the streetlight under which Brendon had stood with – with _her_ – and he touched his mouth. Then he slipped inside.

"Fuck," Brendon said weakly.

*

The next morning, Z was still swearing that she was going to duel Rotham the following day. Ryan had hoped that maybe a night's sleep in her own nightgown would make her sensible, but in that he'd been ignoring the fact that Z was hardly ever sensible, dressed as a boy or not.

When he himself had got up it had felt strange to get dressed, his fingers clumsy with his waistcoat despite the fact that it was what he used to, and he had come downstairs to find Z twirling her father's revolver and wondering aloud if she could practice with the china cabinet.

"Only the ugly cups, Ryan," she said when he gaped.

He spent most of breakfast trying to talk her out of it, long after he knew he'd lost, just to postpone thinking about the other events of last night. He even considered dressing up as Miss Elliot again and tracking down Z's Miss Thomas to convince _her_ to talk Z out of it. But it had to be admitted that mute Georgina Elliot would not be very good at talking people out of things, and in any case Ryan suspected that if he changed back into the dress he wouldn't be able to resist seeking Brendon out again. That wouldn't be a good idea.

He sighed into his juice. "Ryan," Z said, her eyes softening. She reached across the table to take his hand and squeeze it.

Something caught in Ryan's chest. He yanked his hand back and stood quickly, his chair scraping backward.

"Excuse me," he said. "I think I may go for a morning walk."

" _Ryan_ ," Z said. He folded his arms and set his jaw, and Z slumped in her chair. "Where will you go?"

"Just up to Hyde Park, maybe," he said, fiddling with his cuffs. "I just – need some air."

"Don't go too long," Z said. "Come back here and we'll have hot cocoa and I'll trounce you at checkers again."

"Right," Ryan said, and made for the door, snatching up his hat and coat on the way.

The park was busy, couples strolling and groups of small children running amok. It was a windy morning, and Ryan considered wandering across the street to the public house there for something hot to drink, but he was still mostly full from breakfast and he didn't really need anything. He just wanted to walk with the cool breeze and his hands in his pockets and not think about anything in particular, anyone at all.

Last night had been stupid. It had seemed like a good idea, and Z was still idiotically pleased with herself this morning, but all Ryan could feel was miserable. It had been stupid to think that one night with Brendon would be enough. At the time Ryan hadn't known better, of course, but he'd woken this morning feeling equal parts elated and awful, and then he'd sat and stared at the rose for a while, and remembered kissing Brendon, and it was no good. Ryan thought he might go away for a while. He was ruined for town.

His gaze having somehow dropped from the sky to his feet, Ryan didn't notice the person waiting in front of him until he bumped into them.

"Excuse me," he said, stumbling back, and then he looked up and met Brendon Urie's eyes.

Brendon was paler than Ryan remembered from last night, although that could just be the morning light. There were shadows under his eyes that made Ryan wonder if he'd gone back to the party after taking Ryan home. He was holding his hat in his hands. Ryan stared.

"Good morning, Mr Ross," Brendon said gravely.

Ryan swallowed. "Mr Urie." He bowed. The movement brought him closer to Brendon, and a for a second Ryan breathed him in, the warm boyish scent of him. Last night, Ryan had smelled like Brendon when he got home, the imprint of Brendon's hands on him.

"How are you this morning?" Brendon asked.

"Quite well, thank you," Ryan said. "And you?"

"A little tired, I confess." Brendon shrugged one bony shoulder, not taking his eyes away from Ryan's face.

Ryan curled his hands into balls in his pockets to keep them from shaking. "Were you," he began, and then stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. "Did you attend the masquerade at Vauxhall Gardens last night?"

"Yes," Brendon said. "It was." He swallowed, looking away. Ryan's heart was stuck in his throat. "An enjoyable evening," he finished eventually. "Did you? Go, I mean."

"Unfortunately not," Ryan said. "I was feeling unwell. A sore head. I don't think the music and fireworks would have done me much good." He realised suddenly that he hadn't even seen the fireworks. He must have been too distracted to notice when they were set off.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Brendon said.

They stood silently for a moment, then Ryan managed a smile. "Well, Mr Urie, it was a pleasure to –"

"May I walk with you?" Brendon asked. "For a little while?"

Ryan stared. "I'm not sure your family would approve."

"My mother's nerves will survive," Brendon said lightly. "What of yours?"

"My father is dead several years now," Ryan said automatically. "If I want family censorship, I must offend myself."

"Well, then," Brendon said, soft. "Shall we?"

Ryan very nearly took his arm.

He ducked his head, pretending he had been adjusting his cuff. Arm-in-arm was perhaps a little friendlier than Brendon had been thinking when he'd proposed flouting the family feud. He tucked his hands behind his back, instead, trying to look as though he was strolling casually. His hands were shaking.

"It's a shame you missed the masquerade last night." Brendon shot Ryan a grin, which Ryan had no idea what to do with. "There were some amazing costumes."

Ryan bit his lip. "By 'amazing' do you mean 'horrifying'?" he asked, trying to slip into the joking style of conversation Brendon seemed to be going for.

Brendon grinned wider. "Totally horrifying. Lady Dreybridge had all four of her daughters dressed up in peacock feather headdresses; you couldn't even see them through the feathers."

Ryan hadn't seen the Dreybridge girls last night, but he could picture it. His smile began to feel more natural.

"Old Sir Ambrose Finch was on the prowl, too." Brendon widened his eyes. "Jaguar mask," he said, lowering his voice to a hush. His eyes were bright. "And a night-black cloak. I nearly pulled something trying not to laugh."

Ryan gave him a horrified look. "Hell, is that how he sees himself, do you think? As a _jaguar?_ "

Brendon twirled his hat in his hands, putting it back on and dipping it to a rakish angle. "A lithe and predatory grace to his every movement," he drawled.

Ryan laughed.

He was still struggling with a sense of unreality. Maybe the family feud wasn't the life-and-death rift that it had been in his father's time, but it was there and it was real. And Brendon was strolling along at Ryan's side joking with him as though he didn't even care; as though this was something they had ever done before. It wasn't something they had ever done before.

Ryan kept wanting to sway into Brendon's side.

"Was ..." Ryan heard himself start. "Um, who else was there?" _Are you still thinking about me?_ he thought. _About her?_ Then he had to look down because it felt as though his gaze must be burning a hole in Brendon, he wanted so badly to know.

Brendon shot him a quick, conscious look. "I saw your friends the Walkers," he said. "And ... I actually met some cousins of Lord and Lady Berg. Their daughter Lady Elizabeth is a friend of yours, isn't she? So you might ... you might know them."

"Oh," Ryan said. He fought a brief war with himself over whether to feign ignorance, and lost. "You mean the Elliots? What did, um. What did you think of them?"

Brendon seemed to be finding his hands fascinating. "I thought they were nice," he said quietly.

Ryan had to bite down on his lip to keep from letting his disappointment out.

"I thought they were unlike any people I'd met," Brendon said. He looked up, straight at Ryan, and Ryan couldn't breathe properly. Brendon's gaze was intent under a down-drawn brow. "But it's difficult to get to know people at a masquerade. They're probably not much like I imagine them to be."

Ryan couldn't hold his gaze. He looked at the path at their feet, shrugging with one shoulder. "Maybe a masquerade's the best place to get to know somebody," he said. "In some cases."

"But don't you ever –" Brendon broke off. When Ryan looked over his eyes were fixed on the middle distance. He bit his lip, not looking at Ryan. "Don't you ever want to find out what somebody is like out in the sunshine? In their real life? Masquerades are all ... glamour and shadows and cloaks. And –" He darted a look at Ryan, and away again too fast for Ryan to be sure of his expression. "And I like the shadows, but ... I want ..." He shook his head. "Never mind."

 _No, go back_ , Ryan thought.

They were passing over a little stone footbridge. Willows draped over the low stone walls to either side, temporarily cutting out the bright sounds of fashionable London showing off its new hats and waistcoats or taking its morning constitutional. Ryan didn't need reminding of last night, because he hadn't stopped thinking about it, but right now the willows were putting him forcibly in mind of walking close leafy avenues with Brendon, arm tucked into elbow and talking without words. He shook his head, his cheeks getting hot.

Brendon cleared his throat, laughing a little. "Were you speaking from personal experience?" he asked. "When you said a masquerade could be the best place to get acquainted with somebody?"

Ryan blinked. "I, uh," he said. Brendon was studiously avoiding his eyes again, and Ryan took the opportunity to look at him for longer than a moment. His lashes were dark shadows against the wanness of his face, his bottom lip chapped as though he'd been worrying at it. Ryan hadn't settled what it was about Brendon's face that drew him – it was something in the mobility of his mouth, or the expression in his eyes – but right now just looking at him was sparking a powerful want in Ryan. He forced his mind away from the line of Brendon's jaw, and concentrated on answering Brendon's question.

"I think –" Ryan said awkwardly, "I think sometimes people will talk to you in a different way, if they think you're a mysterious stranger and not yourself?" He shook his head. "I – there was someone – I think there was someone who wouldn't have spoken to me at all, if I hadn't been wearing a mask. Once." He was looking at his feet. "Or wouldn't have spoken to me in the way they did; wouldn't have ... have shown me. Any of the things I wanted to see."

He looked up. Brendon was gazing at him, his eyes dark with a surprised emotion. Ryan had a moment of panic. He shouldn't have brought up the masquerade at all. What if Brendon guessed? Ryan didn't know how he could guess, but if he ... Ryan's mind skittered away from the idea in alarm. "That was in Paris," Ryan said, wildly and at random. "The masquerade I'm talking about."

"Oh," Brendon said. His voice croaked, and he cleared his throat. "Right. I've only been to Paris once, on my Grand Tour, after Spencer and I came down from Cambridge. But I do remember a ... a lot of costumed balls, yes. It's a bit of a blur."

Ryan gave him a startled look. He'd forgotten that Spencer had done his Grand Tour with Brendon. That had been before Ryan really cared who Brendon Urie was; Spencer had only got to be good friends with him after Ryan had come down from Cambridge himself, the year before, and had taken his inheritance and left the country before the ink was dry on his diploma. When Spencer left for the Continent Ryan had been keeping company with a vagabond earl's son and his curricle-racing lady companion in Florence, but their paths had never quite intersected; not until Ryan and Alex and Z finally arrived back in London.

Despite the family feud, Ryan couldn't remember being especially curious about Brendon at all, until that night at Miss Anne Monroe's coming out ball. Even then, he hadn't actually recognised Brendon – which had been the problem, of course. If he'd recognised him, Ryan probably wouldn't have struck up a conversation. When Brendon became interested enough in the conversation that he began talking with his hands, his eyes bright, Ryan wouldn't have found himself enraptured. When one of Brendon's sisters tugged him away, her eyes horrified, and Ryan heard the whisper, _Urie and Ross_ , he wouldn't have felt it like something stealing all the air from his lungs.

If Ryan had kept closer tabs on what Spencer was doing after university, he could have avoided _all_ of this, probably. He made a mental note to tell Z and Alex that this made it all their fault. They'd like that.

"Paris is like that, I think," Ryan said, giving Brendon a smile. It only felt a little awkward. "A blur for every night."

They'd reached the north edge of the park; carriages and foot traffic streamed along the road a little distance away. Ryan's hands were still trembling, and he thought he might not actually survive another turn around the path with Brendon. "I have an appointment with my tailor," he said, making up the excuse on the spot. "I should – I'm already a little late."

"Are you busy tomorrow?" Brendon asked.

Ryan blinked. "I ... um ..."

"I was thinking of taking a punt out on the river, if it's a fine day," Brendon said, an impulsive tone to his voice. "If you felt like some company?"

He was looking straight at Ryan. It made it hard to think. "It's ..." Ryan said. "I ... have to be at a dawn duel at Green Park, actually?"

Then he wanted to curse himself out for seven kinds of idiot, because who _told_ people about their friends' secret illegal duels?

Brendon's eyes widened. He looked horrified.

"Oh!" Ryan said. "I mean – not mine. It's my friend's duel. I –"

Brendon was still staring at him. Ryan pulled his face into an anguished expression. "Can we forget I said all that?"

"Really a _duel?_ " Brendon asked. Then, "No, sorry, I was not asking, wasn't I?" He looked as though the not asking was physically painful.

"Um, tailor," Ryan said. "I should – yes. I wish you a – a good morning, Mr Urie."

Ryan waited until he was out of the park and well out of sight before he stopped to rest his forehead against a lamp post. He pulled back to lightly bang his forehead against the post a few times, muttering, _"So. Damned. Stupidly. Awkward,"_ on each bump.

*

Z actually thought there might be a good chance of her winning. She eyed herself in the mirror and cocked her father's pistol again, granting her reflection a wicked grin. It wasn't quite the same effect when she was wearing a dress, but it was still pretty good. It wasn't like this was a duel with swords, either, where he would have had years of practice over her – Z was okay with swords, it was just that all her practicing had to be in secret, which made it hard to get very good at it.

Alex had taught her to use a pistol by the time she was thirteen, though, and she was rather a dab hand at it now. Pistols didn't require as much constant practice as swords; they were easier to master, and Z liked them a whole lot more, actually. As the injured party, the choice of weapon was hers, and it was definitely pistols. She twirled her gun experimentally, fingers bumping warm against the hilt, and then Hedges said, "Lady Elizabeth?" and she swore and dropped it.

When she turned around, Hedges was watching her, face straight and eyes bright. "A visitor for you, Lady Elizabeth," he said.

"Right," Z said, a little surprised that it hadn't happened earlier. She imagined there must be a long line of society misses who wanted to know what scandal Z had gotten herself into to keep her from attending the masquerade last night. Z grimaced, holding out the gun. "Ah, Hedges, would you do me the favour of putting this away for the moment?"

"Certainly, my lady," Hedges said smoothly. He left the silver platter with the calling card on it, and Z sat down on the sofa with a sigh, reaching for it.

Then she froze. _Miss Tennessee Thomas_ , the card said, in a simple script. Z's breath caught in her throat, and she looked up just as Hedges ushered Tennessee in.

Tennessee looked different during the day, Z registered numbly. She was wearing a pretty yellow dress, and her hair was hardly styled at all, pinned simply back with a few delicate strands coming loose on her neck. She had neat white gloves on and _riding_ boots, and Z wondered if Tennessee had honestly ridden through town in the middle of the day to the Berg house. She glanced quickly out the window; there was a boy outside leading a horse up and down the street, but no sign of a carriage, and oh God, Z thought, torn between beaming and just staring with starry eyes at Tennessee, oh God, she _had._

"Hello, Lady Elizabeth," Tennessee said. Z stood, belatedly, and Tennessee curtseyed. "I'm sorry to come so unexpectedly upon you like this."

"Not at all," Z said faintly. Tennessee smiled at her, brief and warm, and Z sat down again in rather a hurry. "I – a lovely surprise. I don't think we've met before?"

"No," Tennessee said. She drew in a breath. "Actually, I was hoping to speak with a relative of yours."

Z frowned. "I'm right here, though," she said petulantly. She shook her head and covered up the instinctive reaction with a smile when Tennessee looked startled, but really. It wasn't _fair._

"Of course," Tennessee said. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply –"

"That I'm not incredibly entertaining?" Z nodded. "I'm very entertaining."

Tennessee's mouth twitched. "I've heard," she said.

"The stories can't keep up with me," Z told her, low and confiding. It was far too easy to fall back into this sort of exchange with Tennessee, Z thought, but at the same time, she rather liked it. "You should come along sometime, I'll show you the truth."

"The truth?" Tennessee raised her eyebrows. "I'm not sure my meagre spirit could keep up with you."

"Don't be silly," Z said comfortably. "We'd have a great time."

Tennessee smiled. "I'm sure," she said. "I just – all due respect, Lady Elizabeth, but I must talk to Mr Elliot. It's a matter of some urgency."

Z blinked. She wasn't sure why she hadn't realised immediately when Tennessee had said _a relative of yours_ – after all, there was no reason for Tennessee to want to talk to her mother. She leaned forward, intrigued. "Oh? Really? Tell me."

Tennessee looked uncomfortable. "It's – sort of a private matter ..."

"You can tell me anything," Z said. "We're very close, Zedekiah and I."

"I don't know," Tennessee said, uneasily. "It was – not the sort of thing he might tell people –"

Z got bored. "Is this about the duel?" she asked. "He told me about that. Tomorrow at dawn, right?"

"Oh," Tennessee said. She smiled quickly. "Yes. I want to – I need to talk to him about it. I've been thinking and just – is he here?"

Z thought quickly. "He's gone back to the country for the day," she said. "To gather some supplies or something. His favourite pistol. He's looking for a second, too, or else he'll have to settle for Ryan Ross, and I can think of about eight different ways that will go badly." She grinned at Tennessee, but Tennessee's answering smile was automatic rather than real. Z frowned.

"Oh," Tennessee said. She ducked her head. "I'm just worried about him. I think it's a – very poor idea, and there must be some way to call it off. Rotham is a bastard." Z beamed at her, and Tennessee looked guilty. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to curse."

"You can curse _all you like_ ," Z promised, leaning forward. She was, she supposed, a little enraptured. Tennessee Thomas was too beautiful, though, beautiful and funny and clever and Z wanted to be her best friend in the whole world. She also wanted to kiss Tennessee's hand again, but she didn't think she would be able to get away with that in this guise.

Tennessee laughed, sudden and sweet. "Well, he is a bastard," she said. "But there are rumours about him and just – I really think it's a bad idea for Mr Elliot to face him. It's too dangerous."

Z waved a hand idly. "Zedekiah thrives on danger," she said. "He walks on the wild side."

Tennessee ducked her head. She was blushing, very faintly. "Yes," she murmured. "I noticed that."

Z stopped grinning, slowly. She said, "Oh, I. Were you –?"

"I only met him last night," Tennessee said, her voice low. "I'm not implying or suggesting anything, I just thought he was interesting and funny and not like anyone else I've ever met. I would hate to see him hurt."

Tennessee was still blushing, Z noticed. Tennessee _liked_ him, liked Mr Elliot, which had been Z's intention all along, so why was she so furious right now?

Zedekiah Elliot wasn't real, was the thing, but Z was. Z _was_ , and Tennessee was only talking to her because Mr Elliot wasn't available.

"Probably getting hurt would do him well," Z said, on impulse. "He's not very nice, really."

Tennessee looked up at her, surprised. "He seemed a very good person to me. A little – exuberant, but good."

"Oh, no, he's a liar and a scoundrel," Z said. "I – I bet he gave you the old India story, didn't he?"

"Yes," Tennessee said slowly.

"That's a lie," Z told her. "Total lie. He's never been to India in his life. He's barely been out of the country at all except – except – except I think he's involved in slave trading."

Tennessee leaned forward, her eyes huge. "No," she breathed.

"Yes!" Z said. "He's such a liar. And a scoundrel. I said that, didn't I? Yes. He's lazy, too. I don't think he's even very good at slave trading, he just does it because of how he's – he's probably evil."

Tennessee was frowning. "He didn't seem like the type to be involved in something like that to me," she said.

"Ah, well," Z said. "Liar, what did I tell you."

Tennessee looked faintly disbelieving. "Nevertheless," she said, "I should not like to see him die. And did you consider, Lady Elizabeth, that possibly he was only making fun, and you believed him? He did seem like the type to tease."

"Because of how he's a _cad_ ," Z insisted. "Really, you don't want to talk to him. I'm very sorry you've been deceived and all, but he's not worth your time."

"Um," Tennessee said, looking very confused.

"I am, though," Z told her, smiling as charmingly as she could. "Did you want to stay for lunch?"

"My father is expecting me," Tennessee said.

"Never mind him," Z said. She rested her chin in her hands. "Stay and talk with me."

Tennessee stared at her, then shook her head, her mouth tilting up. "You're very alike, you know," she said. "You and Mr Elliot. Maybe that's why you don't get on well."

"We're nothing alike," Z said stiffly. "He hates kittens. He steals sweets from small children."

Tennessee put her hand to her mouth, her eyes bright. "I will definitely take your warnings into consideration," she said, standing. "Thank you. I – if you see Mr Elliot before tomorrow, will you tell him that I would like the opportunity to speak to him, if I could? Please?"

Z tried not to growl. "I'll tell him," she said sulkily.

"Thank you," Tennessee said. "I appreciate it." She held out her hand, and for a moment Z was about to kiss it, but then she realised Tennessee wanted to shake. Z hadn't shaken hands with anybody in her life, or at least not beyond the super secret handshake she and Alex had perfected. Tennessee was _so weird_. Z couldn't take her eyes off her.

She shook Tennessee's hand, and kind of forgot to let go.

"It was nice to meet you," Tennessee said. "Thank you for your time."

"Thank _you_ ," Z said, and she finally let go of Tennessee's hand, and Tennessee turned and swept out of the room. Z crossed to the window so she could watch Tennessee retrieve her horse from the boy and give him a coin, before accepting his hand at her stirrup to help her spring up onto her horse. She did it gracefully, as she had danced gracefully the night before. She didn't notice Z, but Z stayed at the window anyway, chin resting on her folded arms, watching Tennessee ride away.

Ryan burst into the room, flinging himself down onto the couch with a low moan. "I think I'm in love," he said.

"Oh, no," Z said absently, and thought, _Me too._

*

Ryan was almost glad when evening rolled around and he had to go and call upon Mr Winterworth.

He stopped by the hearth, fiddling with his gloves. "I'm supposed to try to negotiate a reconciliation with the other second," he said. "I don't suppose ...?"

Z had been working herself into a black, reckless mood all evening; Ryan wasn't actually sure why, and had been too preoccupied with his own troubles to ask. She looked up now, leaning her chin on her hand, her face half in shadow. "Elliot may as well be shot as not," she said lowly. She looked back down, drawing her finger in circles on the table she was seated at.

Ryan opened his mouth to speak again, then closed it. Maybe she'd be in a better mood when he got back. He was pretty sure he'd get nothing reasonable out of her now, especially not when she seemed inclined to murder her own alter ego.

He set his hat on his head and slipped from the room without another word.

Winterworth was as downcast as Ryan when his servants let Ryan in. He raised no objection to Ryan setting the field at the maximum number of paces honour allowed – no need to make it _easy_ for Z and Rotham to fill each other full of holes – although he showed signs of moping when Ryan told him that Z demanded pistols rather than swords.

"He has a good pair of duelling pistols, at least – your boy's all right with Rotham providing his pair?" At Ryan's nod he continued, gloomily, "But he's already barred from returning to Paris for killing his man in a duel there." He took a gulp of whatever was in his glass. "And now pistols! Man's a devil with a pistol."

"Oh," Ryan said.

Winterworth gave Ryan an aggrieved look. "And worst of it is that for once it isn't even at Rotham's instigation! The times I've prevented him from calling some poor bastard out, and then he's challenged by a scrap of a boy at a masquerade! It'll be too bad of your young hothead if Rotham kills him and it leads to more trouble with the law, mark you it will."

"It will be pretty bad," Ryan allowed.

Winterworth scowled at his glass. "I can get us a good physician – know a man who's served as a military doctor, he's used to this kind of affair. D'ye mind if I take that part?"

"No; please do," said Ryan, who had forgotten that one of them needed to engage a physician for the duel. The thought made him ill.

"Might keep him from being barred from another country," Winterworth said blackly, waving the hand holding his drink and sloshing it a little as he subsided into his armchair. He took a gulp, then squinted up at Ryan. "Oh, terribly sorry," he said. "Cognac?"

Ryan accepted the glass Winterworth filled with a splash from the crystal decanter on the sideboard. Ryan stared into the depths of the alcohol, while Winterworth told some further story of his friend's devilry at duelling. Could Z truly be killed? Ryan wondered. Killed playing a trumped up game with a persona she'd invented for a masquerade?

The cognac didn't give him any answers, and it didn't clear his head any either, when he stood to bid Winterworth good evening.

He wondered, as he started the walk home, whether he should be stopping the duel. A man called out to offer him the services of a hansom cab, but he shook his head; he wanted the walk and the cutting night air to think. He _could_ stop the duel, probably. If he got Z's parents involved, or if he somehow stole the only set of masculine clothes Z had had tailored to fit her, or if he let out that Elliot was an alias. If he went with that last option he wouldn't need to get Z into trouble, or let her name be linked to the matter at all, because there was no chance that a man like Rotham would agree to a duel if he found out the man who had challenged him had been playing a joke role – he would never permit himself to be made fun of.

Ryan hunched his shoulders, pulling his collar up higher and pushing his hands into his pockets. He'd never ruined a trick of Z's like that, and she'd never ruined one of his. It was the bedrock of their friendship – they promised never to be the voice of reason with one another. There were enough voices of reason in the world; Ryan had been almost stifled with them, before he left England that first time.

He changed direction, dropping by the Berg residence one more time. The rest of the family was in bed already, or out of the house, but Z was sitting up in the library, brooding by the light of one candle. Ryan stopped in the shadow of the doorway. He knocked softly on the frame.

Z propped her elbow on the table, turning to face him. Her chin was supported on her hand, her shoulders were slumped, and her hair had partly tumbled down; it was soft and mussed on her shoulders. Her eyes were dark, shadowed in the dimness of the room.

"Winterworth says Rotham has a good pair of duelling pistols; I told him you didn't mind if the two of you used those," Ryan said. Z nodded but didn't answer.

"And he's going to engage a physician for tomorrow; says he knows a military man."

"Good," Z said.

Ryan shifted to try if he could see her expression better. "You know if you don't turn up tomorrow, there's no way it can come back to you," he said quietly. "There's no dishonour to Lady Berg if Mr Elliot fails to make good on his challenge."

"You're not afraid he'd demand my second take my place?" Z asked, lifting her eyes. There was something bleak in her voice.

Ryan came further into the room, taking his hat off. "We're not in the middle ages," he said drily. "Duels don't run that way among civilised men."

Z curled her lip; it was more the shadow of a movement than a definite expression, with her face inclined away from the light of the candle. "Rotham hardly qualifies as a civilised man, and Elliot certainly doesn't," she said. "He's a slave trader, you know."

Ryan gaped a little, his fingers opening and closing on the bridge of his hat. "... really?"

"That's what I told Tennessee." Z turned back to the candle, prodding at the wax with her fingertip. She didn't seem to mind when it sizzled against her skin. "She still likes him better than me. Apparently even when I do everything right, I do it all wrong."

Ryan paused. Z had told him about Tennessee Thomas of course, and Ryan knew she had liked her a lot, but the information hadn't had a lot of significance to Ryan compared to the part where Z had _challenged a man to a pistol fight_. He was starting to think he might have got the highlights of Z's night a bit upside down. For a moment he wondered again about the possibility of hunting down Miss Thomas before the morning in case she could talk Z out of the duel better than Ryan could. Then he realised she must have sought Z out herself, if Z had managed to tell her that Elliot was a slave trader. Ryan was still having trouble wrapping his head around that.

"Maybe you could tell her about ..." he started hesitantly, and Z stood, making the candle flare.

"Oh, what's the use?" she demanded. "Tennessee wants the dashing cavalier she met at the masquerade, if she wants me at all – if she wasn't only following up on Elliot this morning because she thought he was a damned fool last night." She half turned, a restless movement that made her hair slip further down her neck. "What's the point of any of it? What am I doing with my life that's so great? I may as well go off and get myself shot tomorrow." Her voice was rustier than usual. "It will hardly make a difference."

"If you die –" Ryan tried, but she snorted.

"People hardly ever _die_ in duels. You're giving that dog Rotham too much credit." She picked up the candle, the flame swaying and throwing a ghoulish flare over her face. "I'm going to bed now. I'll see you tomorrow morning. First light; that'll be something different for us."

Ryan was almost through the door before he remembered something and turned back. "Your coat buttons are too shiny," he said. "Get Hedges to dull them before tomorrow morning; they'll be too good a target to aim for."

Z lifted her candle in a mocking salute, already on the first step of the hall stairs. "I think he'll be able to see me to aim for anyway," she called. "I'm not _that_ small. But all right; I will."

Ryan gave her a smile, but his worry made it awkward and unconvincing. He turned and let himself out of the house, not bothering to disturb Hedges to open the door for him.

At home, there was a tattered and stained missive from Alex waiting for him, but even Alex's rambling and heavily punctuated account of Egypt wasn't enough to cheer him up. Ryan folded it up halfway through reading and put it back in the envelope, leaning back in his chair and staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the morning.

*

Z awoke feeling immeasurably more cheerful than she had the night before.

Or, that wasn't precisely true: when she first woke, it was to her maid Sophie shaking her shoulder, the candle in her other hand the only gleam disturbing the blackness of Z's bedroom, and she had some confused notion that Sophie was a fiend sent to drag her to hell. But once she'd had twenty minutes or so to wake up and get her head clear, and had stopped pathetically trying to coax Sophie into letting her crawl back into bed for another five hours like a regular person, the world began to look much brighter.

"You are ... sure about this, Lady Elizabeth?" Sophie asked. Neither she nor Hedges had been told what Z was doing this morning, but they seemed to have somehow guessed. Z didn't know what it said about her that her maid and butler could guess she was off to take part in an illegal duel. She'd always suspected the Berg servants of being remarkable, though.

Though there was the moment when they'd caught her practicing with a pistol yesterday to consider. Z supposed there might be a little more observation than psychic skills in play, especially considering Ryan dashing around looking more and more tragic with each new event.

"Of course I am!" Z said. She finished doing up the buttons of her waistcoat and nodded for Sophie to ease her into her coat. She ran a critical eye over her reflection in the full-length mirror. She looked marvellous. It was lucky she'd picked black for her masquerade clothes. Something like brilliant topaz, as she'd considered, wouldn't have done at all for this morning.

There was a bubble of excitement in her stomach. She grinned at Sophie, clipping the chain of her pocket watch into place with a flourish. "I'm going to be magnificent today," she confided. "Wait for my return and you'll see."

She gave Sophie a half sovereign, and Hedges another when he opened the door to reveal the hackney coach he'd called. It was standing a little way down the street, under the light of a street lamp. Robins, their coachman, could be a little stuffy, and might have reported Z's escapade to her parents; she grinned brightly at Hedges, appreciating the thought.

"Be careful, my lady," Hedges said. There was a shadow of worry in his eyes.

Z took out her pocket watch, flipping it in the air so it gleamed in the illumination from the hall. "I won't need to," she said, tucking her watch back and flipping her coat tails behind her. She took the three steps to the street in one jump, turning backwards and doffing her hat as she made for the hackney. "This morning I have all the luck in the world on my side!"

She jumped up into the coach before the driver could assist her, called out directions, and settled into her seat as they clattered into motion. She could feel it, a bright certainty: this morning she was going to be great.

It wasn't an especially long drive. Z supposed she ought to be using the short time for strategising on how to win, or perhaps commending her soul to God, but mostly she stared out the window. She was only used to seeing the city at this time of morning on her way back from a night of excitement, when she was usually too tired to pay much attention to it. Now, she watched the early morning mist rising up in the grey streets, the freshness of everything; even the horses they passed had their heads lifted high. They drove through St James Park, green expanses wet with dew, and Z stretched lazily in her seat, feeling as though the whole morning had been made for her.

Even Ryan's dour expression when they pulled up couldn't deflate her. Z tossed her driver a couple of coins as incentive to pretend he didn't know what was going on while he waited, and sauntered towards Ryan.

"Ross," she said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Damned good to see you."

"Mr Elliot," Ryan said, the corner of his mouth twisting down.

"Chin up, old boy," Z said. "This will be a simple enough thing, I imagine. Show up, shoot the bugger, be on our way. I imagine we could be having a hot breakfast at your club within an hour and a half."

Ryan coughed. "You might want to keep your voice down," he said. "Everyone is arriving. You should probably finish the first mess you made before you get challenged to a second duel."

"You are not even a little bit of fun," Z said, hooking her fingers in her belt loops and wandering away. The grass was long here, away from the road. Her boots were shining with dew, wet all the way up to her knee. Much better than a dress, she thought, nodding to herself.

Ryan hurried after her. "That's Winterworth, there," he said, nodding to the small man alighting from one of the carriages that had pulled up. "I don't recognise the man in the hackney – he might be the doctor."

"Or maybe a friend," Z said. "Come to see Rotham get beaten into the dust."

"You're not boxing," Ryan said, clearly annoyed. Z blew him a kiss, and Ryan's face went the kind of pinched it did when he was trying not to laugh. "And maybe don't do that, either."

"I'll try to resist you," Z said.

"Do," Ryan said, as they drew closer to the other group. "Look, here's Rotham now."

Rotham got out of a fine carriage, the coat of arms discreetly veiled in black (in case they wound up arrested or something, Z supposed). Her pulse spiked a little with excitement at the thought.

"Hello, boy," Rotham said, grimly. "No last minute repentance of your impudence?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Z said, feeling the character settle around her just right, "was that a cowardly attempt to slither out of this?"

Rotham's face twisted, pink with rage. "You would do well to tame your tongue," he snapped, "or someone may cut it out."

"Oh, you may certainly try," Z said. "You're looking a little portly around the middle, sir, I'm not entirely sure you would be able to reach me in –"

Rotham started forward, but Winterworth caught him by the arm. "Let's leave it for the duel, gentleman," he said wearily. "Mr Elliot, a quarter of the hour to weight the pistols and prepare yourselves. And may I introduce our surgeon, Mr Thomas Godwin."

Z looked at the doctor and nodded politely to him. Godwin was younger than she had expected, fresh faced and with a cap jammed on over his light hair that gave him a faintly urchin-like air. Z had expected someone as fastidious and bad-tempered as the man with whom she was duelling, and when Winterworth and Rotham turned aside, she favoured Godwin with a grin and a wink.

Godwin didn't smile back. He just regarded her seriously, his eyes thoughtful under the shadow of his cap. Z wondered if doctors didn't wear their bowler hats when there was a chance of blood getting on them or something.

She opened her mouth to give some greeting, she wasn't sure what, when they were all of them distracted by another coach pulling up.

"Who the hell is that?" Rotham asked, and Z squinted at the figure climbing out of the coach and tipping the driver. Then Ryan was clutching her arm, his fingers digging into her skin through the fabric of her coat. She shook him off, giving him a startled look.

"What is it?" she hissed.

"That's Brendon," Ryan said. "Brendon Urie. What is he _doing_ here?"

Ryan took an uncertain step forward, then jolted backwards, making as if he was about to run. Z moved slightly so that she could block him if he did so, and Ryan didn't end up moving at all. He stood perfectly still instead, looking as though he would have to start trembling with the effort holding himself so tight.

"Can we help you, sir?" Winterworth was frowning at Brendon.

"Um, hello." Brendon was half-smiling, like he knew he wasn't wanted, darting a glance around at all of them. "I'm sorry, I just. I was wondering if I might be allowed to sit in. Or stand in."

"It's very improper," Winterworth began.

"What the devil do you mean by it?" Rotham stared, looking torn between outrage and confusion. "Do you have some attachment to the proceedings?"

"No real attachment," Brendon said quietly.

"Well –"

"I have no problem with it," Z put in coolly. "Of course, Rotham, if you wish to be disgraced in front of as small an audience as possible, that's perfectly understandable –"

"You will _eat those words_ , boy," Rotham growled. "Damn it all, then. This will make me a laughing stock if it ever gets out; entertaining a stock of children, my God. You'd best hope your hand is as quick as your tongue, Elliot."

He turned and walked away, hissing furiously to Winterworth under his breath, and Z shrugged. She turned back to Brendon, grinning. "Hello, Mr Urie. It's a pleasure to see you again. Though a surprise, I confess. You know my sister isn't here?"

"I know," Brendon said. "I thought I might foist my company on you anyway." He took another small step towards their party. "Hello, Mr Ross."

"Mr Urie," Ryan said, bowing a little. His voice was low and a little rough. Z wondered if she was the only one who noticed. Brendon's eyes looked very bright, though that could just be early the hour.

"And, um," Brendon said, turning to the young doctor. "I don't believe we've met. Brendon Urie, it's a pleasure."

"Certainly," Godwin said, bowing a little. "Mr Thomas Godwin, at your service."

"You're a military man, Winterworth mentioned," Ryan said. His voice was shaking a little, but not obviously. Z was fiercely proud of him.

"My father, actually," Godwin said. "I shall be one day, I hope, but at the moment I'm an assistant surgeon at the Royal Hospital. My father was otherwise engaged today, I'm afraid, so you will have to make do with me." He smiled, neat and quick, and Z blinked. There was something very familiar about him.

"That's admirable work," Z said. "I was going to be a surgeon."

"You were _never_ ," Ryan said, not thinking, and Z burst out laughing. Brendon smiled, too, but Godwin just watched Z, barely blinking.

"I have heard tell of some of your exploits, Mr Elliot," Godwin said. "If you'll forgive me, they seem a far throw from medicine."

Z beamed, unable to believe that rumours had spread about her – him – already. God, she loved this gossipy town. "Oh, really? Do enlighten me."

"Nothing particularly impressive," Godwin said, "or not by my definition. I've heard rumours about off-shore activities, though, and the purchase of people for profit."

It took them all a moment to parse that.

"Slave trading?" Brendon said. He let out a short, startled laugh, then stopped at the expressions on their faces. "Wait. Really?"

"That's what I've been told," Godwin said, his gaze searching. Z thought he looked as though he did not really believe it, but was determined to ask.

"Really," Z said slowly, "I wonder who –"

She stopped. She knew exactly who had spread the rumours about Mr Elliot's slave trading background, except that she hadn't spread rumours at all. She had told one person, and Ryan. Now, she looked at Godwin's wide blue eyes, his hair, his cheekbones, and her breath caught.

"Oh," she said.

"I'm sorry?" Godwin blinked at her.

" _Oh_ ," Z said, and beamed at the young doctor. "Thomas Godwin. Oh, my God, you are a _treat_."

Ryan and Brendon were both staring at her. Z clapped her hands to her cheeks. She had a feeling she was blushing, pleased and strangely shy, but she couldn't help it.

"I'm – excuse me, I don't quite understand."

"I like your hat," Z told Thomas Godwin, Tennessee Thomas, oh _God_ she loved this girl. She resisted the urge to seize her in a hug, or something else. "It's very fetching. Where did you get it?"

Tennessee looked caught, her eyes darting back and forth. "Um," she began.

"Tell me, Thomas," Z said. "– you don't mind if I call you Thomas, do you? No? Fine – tell me, how's your bedside manner?"

Tennessee stared at her. Then she took a deep breath. "Impeccable," she said.

"Oh, I hoped so," Z said. Tennessee kept staring. Then she shook her head, and smiled, very quickly.

"I think we had better go and watch the weighing of the pistols," she said. "If all parties are amenable."

"Wherever you want," Z said grandly. Ryan shot her another startled look, but Z just grinned at him and said, "Come along, fellows," and set off towards Rotham and Winterworth.

Tennessee was quiet, looking as if she was a little shocked, but when Z grinned at her again she smiled back, very small. Z would tell her soon, she resolved. She would tell Tennessee everything, and then Tennessee would see how they were clearly destined to be together forever, and everything would be wonderful.

"Are you nervous?" Brendon asked, sounding awkward. As he should be, Z thought. It was _really bizarre_ that he was here, and she shot him a knowing look. Brendon flushed.

"Not particularly," she said airily. "Rotham is a cad. He needs to be put in his place."

"Right," Brendon said. "That's very – community-spirited of you."

Ryan made a choking noise. Z ignored him.

"Thank you," she said. "I like to think of it like that, too."

"He's doing the whole world a service, really," Ryan said, mostly talking to Brendon over Z's head. "Such a gentleman."

"I can only aspire to reach such heights," Brendon said, wide-eyed.

Ryan nodded. "I believe we can expect a royal letter of commendation at any moment."

"Surely His Majesty wouldn't be so stingy," Brendon said. "A knighthood, at least."

Ryan covered his mouth with his hand, smiling uncontrollably. Z rolled her eyes at the both of them, striding ahead so that the others had to hurry to keep up with her.

"What's going on here, Rotham?" she demanded. Rotham looked up, his mouth set in a frustrated line. "You look a little red in the face. You're not out of breath before we've started, are you, old man?"

"This damned catch is stuck." Rotham grunted, twisting the pistol in his hands.

"Careful now, Rotham," Winterworth put in, sounding a little alarmed. "Angle it down, there's a good man –"

"Don't _niggle_ at me, Frederick," Rotham said, jerking his head up sharply. "You've done something strange with the catch, these are my best pistols, you can't just –"

Whatever Winterworth couldn't do was drowned out by a bang that echoed in the early morning. Z jolted back, staring at Rotham was still holding the pistol, eyes wide and mouth open.

"You _cheat_ ," she spat. "You broke the laws of engagement, you disgusting –"

"Z," Ryan said, sounding broken, "shut _up_." And then he was shoving past her and falling to his knees. Z turned, staring, and pressed her fingers to her mouth. Brendon Urie was crumpled on the ground, red blooming against his white shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

The gunshot was shockingly loud. Ryan felt as though he was still hearing it, drowning out the distant sounds of exclamation and Brendon's laboured breath. That shouldn't be distant: Brendon's chest was right under Ryan's hands, and above it his eyes were wide and dark and not quite focused on Ryan's face.

"Shut up," Ryan said, and he realised he'd been saying it for a while, muttering it like a mantra, "shut up, shut up, shut up," as though if he could stop Brendon's pained breaths he could make this not be happening. "Shut – you're – why did you just _stand_ there, he had a gun, why did – tell me what to do!"

"Mr Ross, move out of the way," somebody said in a brusque tone, and Ryan stumbled sideways on his knees as the young doctor shouldered him aside. Then it was all quiet competence and quick-moving hands, Ryan hovering dumbly to the side as the doctor worked. Brendon hissed in his breath, then laughed short and abortive, biting down on his bottom lip to hold it in.

"I didn't think – this was the way duels worked," Brendon managed to say.

Dr Godwin, folding back the torn fabric of his shirt and feeling around the wound, shushed him. Brendon's head thumped back against the ground, a distressed sound escaping him. Ryan had to tuck his hands under his knees.

The doctor lifted his head, giving Ryan a piercing glance. He looked very youthful indeed, without even a shadow to need shaving from his cheeks, but Ryan was abruptly convinced that he could see every thought in Ryan's head.

"If you would like to help," the doctor said, the constrained and husky voice he had employed all morning giving the words a particular gravitas, "you might distract the young man by talking to him, or holding his hand."

Ryan blinked at him, a kind of stupor still upon him. Then he nodded and shuffled up to Brendon's head. Mindful of the doctor's words he reached out and lifted Brendon's hand. He wore no gloves. Ryan stripped off his own on an impulse and curled his hand around Brendon's chilled fingers.

"This isn't usually the way duels work," Ryan agreed, answering Brendon's earlier words. Brendon had closed his eyes tight against the doctor's work, his head tipped back. He opened his eyes, but they were foggy with pain.

"That's what I said," he whispered. "A very inf– inferi– inferior way of doing things. _Ah!_ "

Ryan tightened his hand. Brendon was blinking and trying to focus. Sweat had dampened the locks over his brow.

"Although I haven't been to any others," Ryan said, hardly knowing what he was saying. "I don't want you to think that that's what my set does. That we duel all the time. I've never been in a duel."

Brendon made another involuntary sound of pain, shifting his head to the side. Ryan shot a glance down at what the doctor was doing, saw the new gush of blood staining his hands where he worked, and was nearly sick with the fear that clenched his stomach. He dropped his head, breathing harder. Brendon wasn't going to die at Z's duel. The world couldn't let that happen.

"Bet you wish – you never told me about this," Brendon said. Ryan lifted his head again and saw that Brendon's eyes had cleared a little, his eyes bright with strained amusement. "I'm sorry," he said. Then he closed his eyes, his hand clenching and loosing as pain crossed his face again.

"No," Ryan said. "I mean – yes, I wish – fuck. I wish."

Brendon's brow furrowed, and he moved his fingers. "You're holding my hand," he discovered. He opened his eyes, his expression wondering. He shifted his fingers again, experimentally. "Hi," he said, smiling quick and dazed, his eyes not quite able to focus on Ryan.

Ryan's heart beat so hard that it hurt. "Hi," he whispered.

"I thought you only – only did that when you were Miss Elliot," Brendon murmured, closing his eyes once more. "When we danced."

In his own shocked stillness, Ryan was only distantly aware that Dr Godwin's hands had also paused in their work, the young physician momentarily stiffening. Ryan didn't care what the doctor thought, if he understood what Brendon had said at all. He stared down at Brendon, his mind racing. If Brendon knew – if Brendon had known at the park yesterday morning – if Brendon had known when he came out this morning –

"Did you always know?" Ryan asked.

Brendon tossed his head to the side. Ryan tentatively reached out his free hand, trembling, and touched Brendon's cheek. "Brendon?" he asked. "Did you know wh-why I wanted to go to the masquerade?"

Brendon sucked in a harsh breath, his shoulders shaking. "... my hand," he mumbled. " _Ah_. Ah, I don't ... don't ..."

"He's speaking from delirium," Dr Godwin said in a low voice. "Don't press him." Ryan looked up, reminded again that their conversation had an audience. He wasn't much more concerned with the fact than he had been before.

"Is he all right?" he summoned the courage to ask. He heard his voice come out even more tonelessly than usual.

The doctor nodded, the decisiveness of the gesture again at odds with his youth. "He will need a considerable period of recuperation, but he can be moved now, if you will help me shift him to one of the carriages."

"Mine," Z said, and Ryan hadn't even realised she was standing there. He jumped, twisting to look up at her. She was white faced, her eyes dark and almost burning. Her shoulders were very tight in her black coat. "The Uries live all the way across town – that's an extra forty minutes of jolting in the carriage. Take him to my house. The responsibility of caring for him is mine."

Dr Godwin looked down. He busied his hands tucking in the ends of the bandage he had applied to Brendon's chest. "I understood," he said in a halting voice, "that you were staying with your aunt and uncle in town."

Z's bloodless cheeks flooded with colour. "That was what I meant," she said. "The Berg household."

The young doctor nodded, still not looking up. Z stared down at him for a moment, then turned on her heel, striding back towards the road to speak to her coachman.

Godwin did look up then, his expression distant. He nodded at Ryan to take Brendon's right side.

Brendon had fallen into a restless doze, drugged with pain. He let himself be woken and supported painfully to his feet with only a shocked hiss of pain and a plaintive, wandering mumble as they began to walk him through the trees, one under each arm. He breathed jerkily with each step, small sounds of pain escaping him.

"I will give you some laudanum for the carriage journey," Dr Godwin promised him in a soothing, matter of fact tone. "You have only to walk so far as that."

It felt as though it took forever to reach the carriage, with every stone and tuffet on the way placed there purely to make Brendon's path as difficult as possible. Ryan was breathing almost as hard as Brendon by the end, feeling like a blow every jolt that hurt him. At the carriage Z and the coachman took over, the coachman contriving to seem as though he did not notice anything that was happening even as he competently arranged Brendon's comfort. Ryan was glad for whatever Z had said (or paid, more likely) for such cooperation.

He stepped back from the door, looking around. Rotham and Winterworth, he realised, were still there under the trees.

Winterworth approached, cautiously, when he saw that Ryan had noticed him. Rotham remained a stiffly threatening figure behind him, in the dregs of morning mist that hugged the ground.

"Damned sorry affair," Winterworth said, after a moment of silence.

Ryan didn't answer. He stared in an unfriendly way at Winterworth.

Winterworth coughed. "Yes," he said. "Well. Your young man – Elliot – said a good deal. Don't know if you heard it. He said enough that in ordinary circumstances I daresay Rotham would have – well." He coughed again. "Also got the impression he wished to drop this morning's engagement, and, uh, 'Never see either of our faces again', I believe. Little less civil than that, I'm paraphrasing, but you get the picture."

"And you want to be sure that's true," Ryan guessed, his voice flat. "And that no charges will be laid for this morning's work."

Winterworth lifted his hands, a frustrated motion. "God damn it, you see it's best. Tangling with the law won't do any of us any favours. Shame about the boy, though what he was doing wandering about somebody else's duel – " He broke off, catching Ryan's expression.

"Go," Ryan choked out. "I won't promise what Brendon will want to do about it when he's well, but if Elliot told you he was willing to forget the original offense, then it's true. I hope none of us ever run into each other again."

He didn't trust himself to say anything more. Winterworth looked relieved and dissatisfied in equal measures.

"It's a bad business, that's for certain," Winterworth said at last. "No honour in shooting a stripling in any case, and less in shooting a bystander. I'll be glad to put it behind me." With that he turned to join his companion, brushing his hands against his breeches as though he could actually brush off what had happened this morning in that way.

Somebody touched Ryan's shoulder, and he turned. Z was looking at him, her eyes watchful. "It's time to go," she said. Ryan turned with her to the small cavalcade of waiting carriages.

*

Z stayed in the hall to see Tennessee, as Dr Thomas Godwin, go up with Brendon to the room Z had arranged to have set aside for him, then close the door behind her with such finality that even Ryan didn't dare trespass. He hovered outside, instead, eyes huge and dark in his white face, and Z cast him an anxious look but went up to get changed. Tennessee didn't know yet, not exactly, but Z thought it might be rather too dangerous to linger around her own house in Mr Elliot's guise; there was too much risk of someone questioning where she herself had gone. She would tell Tennessee that Mr Elliot had gone to finalise things with Rotham and Winterworth; or maybe, she thought, with butterflies in her stomach, she would tell Tennessee the truth. Tennessee seemed near enough to discovering it, anyway.

There was a small, hard knot of guilt in her chest, even though she knew, strictly speaking, that it wasn't her fault. She hadn't invited Brendon, and she hadn't made Rotham's guns go off at the wrong time.

On the other hand, if it wasn't for her, there would never have been any need for the duel or the pistols or Brendon being there in the first place.

Her hair arranged as well as she could manage in ten minutes, Z went to find Ryan and coax him downstairs, pressing a cup of tea into his trembling fingers.

He stared ahead, and Z drew in a breath.

"Ryan," she said. "He's going to be okay."

Ryan looked up at her, his eyes still wide and shocked. "He's delirious, Godwin said."

"I imagine that's normal, after getting shot," Z said. "Shock and then whatever drugs T- Thomas Godwin administered, it's – Ryan, he'll be fine. He'll be _fine_."

"He knows," Ryan said.

"Knows what?"

"The day of the week," Ryan snapped. "Knows about the masquerade, Z."

Z stared at him. "He knows that Miss Elliot was you?"

"Yes," Ryan said. "I – he might know about you too, I don't know, he." He set the tea down and stood up, pacing to the wall and leaning against it. "How long can he have – do you think he knew _then_?"

"I don't know," Z said. "How do _you_ know he knows?"

"He said something," Ryan said. "When he was." He flapped a hand. "And – thinking about it, he was so weird, the morning after the masquerade, I'm, I'm almost sure he knew then. Just. God." He let out a breath.

"But – Ryan," Z said, and started to smile. "You think that means ...?"

"I don't know." Ryan shook his head, turning away from her. "I don't know _what_ to think, I can't even – I can't imagine what was going through his head, _why_ he – and what if he doesn't get better?" His eyes, when he turned to Z on that last question, were wide and lost.

"He'll get better," Z said. "Godwin will fix him. Wait and see." She considered telling Ryan about Tennessee, but decided that Ryan had probably had enough shocks for the morning. He proved it by sliding slowly to the ground, his back still pressed against the wall.

"What is my _life_?" he mumbled and Z didn't have an answer to that. Ryan didn't seem to expect one, at least. He sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, looking oddly young. Z sat next to him.

It was easy to sit together in tense silence, their ears strained for any sound from Brendon or Tennessee above. Z wasn't expecting the sudden commotion: a loud, angry voice in the hall, Hedges' mild voice rising above the noise as well as it could. Ryan looked up, blinking, and Z stood and looked towards the doorway.

Hedges appeared, somewhat breathless. "Lady Elizabeth," he said. "Presenting Lady Margaret D'Urie."

*

Ryan straightened, staring up at the sudden, imperious presence filling the room. Abruptly he scrambled to his feet, Z's hand closing on his arm to pull him up. Lady Margaret was tiny – more pocket-sized than Brendon himself – but her enormous feathered headdress and velvet ruffles and imposing skirts gave her the appearance of being able to look down on both of them. Which, granted, was not so difficult when Z was a pixie herself and Ryan was on the floor, but both of them straightening and standing shoulder to shoulder didn't seem to help.

"Uh –" Z began, but Lady Margaret ignored her, sweeping her gaze around to Ryan.

"I knew it," she said. Her voice rang out in accusation. "They told me that you were an intimate of this house, Mr Ross. I knew when I heard that Brendon had been brought here, injured by _footpads_ , that you must have been involved."

Ryan supposed that Z must given the footpad lie to the messenger sent to the Urie residence. Lady Margaret's scorn suggested she attached about as much credence to it as it deserved.

"I hope," said Z, her tone icy, "that you are not accusing my guest of any misconduct, Lady Margaret."

Lady Margaret turned back to Z, reminded of her presence. "And _I_ wonder that you don't blush to claim him as a guest," she said, her nostrils flaring. "Although," she continued, "the stories I have heard about _you_ , Lady Elizabeth, suggest that there is very little you blush at."

Ryan was suddenly very glad that Z couldn't challenge Lady Margaret d'Urie to a duel.

"Where is my nephew?" Lady Margaret demanded, ignoring the white rage on Z's face. "I insist you give him up to the care of my own physician. I will not have him polluted by a moment's more exposure to this place."

"Madam," Z said, and if her voice had been icy before it was now arctic. "I think you misjudge your position here. Your reign over your own circles may be absolute, but in my own house, I do not give up anything that I want." She smiled a glittering smile. "And right now I want your nephew."

Lady Margaret swelled. "You _impudent_ girl." She turned to Ryan, trembling with her own rage. "Mr Ross, I demand you take me to him."

Ryan unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, speaking for the first time. "Brendon is being tended by the surgeon," he said. "He isn't ... a prisoner here, you know. If he wakes up and wants to go home, we'll send him."

Lady Margaret looked singularly unimpressed by this promise. " _Wants_ to go home," she said. "As if that boy can be trusted in his wants. I suppose he _wanted_ to go out with you and get himself shot." Her face was pinched with distaste. "Brendon has always been drawn to what ought to repel him. I imagine that you, with your family's disgraceful history toward his own, and the scandals of your set, were fascinating and appalling to him in equal measures. Perhaps he accompanied you to see how far you would go." She paused, her eyes glittering. "But make no mistake, Mr Ross. Brendon is not so easily suborned. He might have followed you into one disaster out of curiosity, but he _will_ return to his family."

Ryan was shaking. "I think that you should leave now."

Z, beside him, gave a low growl of agreement.

Lady Margaret's lip curled. "I suppose you mean by this to show you're as much a scoundrel as your father. I will _have my nephew_."

"I'm _not_ my father," Ryan said. "And Brendon and I have – have no interest in playing along with the stupid feud the rest of you have created out of spite and boredom!"

There was moment's shocked silence. Ryan, flushing, wondered whether it could be true. Or could the feud be important to Brendon? Brendon could easily have walked with Ryan at the park, and come to the duel, because he was fascinated, appalled even, and curious about what crazy thing Ryan and his friends would do next.

Get Brendon shot, as it turned out. Fuck.

Lady Margaret drew in a breath. "Your father –"

"Is not me," Ryan said, lifting his face and speaking through the hard lump in his throat. "My father was – whatever he was, your husband drew just as much disrespect to himself in the encounter, and I am, I am tired of pretending that two old men can dictate who I wish to keep company with."

"That is enough," Lady Margaret said. "I have no intention of listening to a child. Send Brendon home immediately, or I will simply call the law down upon you."

"You will do no such thing," Ryan said, his lip curling now. "You wouldn't risk the scandal. Brendon is _hurt_. He is – he was – he could have been killed. And Lady Elizabeth and I will make sure he is afforded the proper care, and I do not think that having him shipped across town for the sake of propriety qualifies. If you don't leave now the servants will lift you bodily and take you out."

Ryan glanced sideways at Z, to check how she was taking him throwing people out of her house. She grinned, fierce and pleased, and lifted her chin in agreement.

Lady Margaret had swelled to such a pitch of rage she seemed unable to speak. Eventually she forced out, "I have never been so insulted in my life. I hope you are both torn apart by lions."

With this last unexpectedly human retort, she turned on her heel and swept from the room.

*

 

When Ryan knocked on the door, his hands still shaking with the rush of that conflict, Godwin opened the door almost straight away. He blinked at Ryan in a surprised manner.

"Oh, hello," he said. "You can go in now, if you like. He's resting, though, so I can't imagine it will be terribly interesting."

"Is he –"

"He'll be fine," Godwin said. "Some blood loss, and he's still fairly woozy. I wouldn't recommend moving him for a day, and the wound will be painful a while yet until it begins to heal. But no lasting damage to the muscle. He'll have a scar, though."

"Right," Ryan said. He breathed in, rubbing his face with his hands. "Thank you. I – thank you very much."

"You're welcome," Godwin said. His eyes darted about. "Is Mr Elliot still here?"

Ryan took a moment to remember Z's instructions. "No, he had to leave," he said. "Further business with Rotham, I think, settling things. Lady Elizabeth Berg is downstairs, though, if you would like – tea, or something."

Godwin held his hat in his hands, still, Ryan noticed, hadn't given it to Hedges at the door. It wasn't something a gentleman would normally forget to do; but then, Godwin had been distracted with Brendon.

Now, Godwin twirled the hat in his hands and said, thoughtfully, "I think I might, yes."

"Well." Ryan smiled nervously at him, and stepped aside so Godwin could pass. Then he slipped through and closed the door carefully behind him, his hands lingering on the doorknob, the smooth wood.

In the bed, Brendon seemed smaller than usual, his hair falling dark and messy over his pale face. For a moment, Ryan stood frozen to the spot, not daring to draw any nearer; Brendon was _hurt_ , and it was Ryan's fault, the whole damn thing was Ryan's fault.

Godwin had said he would be fine, Ryan reminded himself. It didn't matter that Brendon looked unnaturally still in the bed, didn't matter that Ryan could barely see the rise and fall of his chest, because Godwin was a doctor and Ryan was just an idiot with a habit of getting himself and his friends into scrapes they weren't so good at getting out of.

Ryan took off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, unbuttoning his collar and loosening his neckcloth. Then he drew the chair over to Brendon's bedside and sat watching Brendon quietly. He wanted to reach out and take Brendon's hand, pick it up where it was resting on top of the blanket and keep it warm, but didn't quite dare.

Instead, he reached out and touched Brendon's hair. It was still a little damp with sweat, matted in dark curls to his skin, and Ryan bit his lip. He had a moment's warning when Brendon's eyelashes fluttered, just enough to snatch his hand back, then Brendon breathed in a gulp and jerked awake.

"What?" Brendon said, his eyes darting around the room.

"Sorry," Ryan said quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you. Or wake you."

"Oh." Brendon licked his cracked lips. Ryan looked away. "I thought I heard my aunt."

Ryan laughed, short and humourless. "Yes, she was here for a while."

Brendon closed his eyes. "I hoped I was dreaming."

"She's gone now," Ryan said. He studied Brendon's face carefully. "She wanted to take you home."

"She would," Brendon said, and nothing more.

After a moment, Ryan asked, "Should I have let her?"

Brendon shuddered as if the thought gave him a headache.

Ryan bit his lip. "Can I, can I get you anything?"

"Some water," Brendon said, "if you would."

There was a pitcher on the dresser. Ryan went and poured a glass, then had to support Brendon as he sat up. Brendon winced, taking in quick, pained breaths, and Ryan hurried to fluff the pillows and set them up so Brendon could lean back against them. Brendon's hands were shaking, so after a moment Ryan helped him hold the glass to his mouth. He tried not to pay attention to the way Brendon's throat worked as he swallowed.

Ryan was impartial, tending to a patient. The fact that he was most of the way in love with the patient didn't have to mean a thing.

"How are you feeling?" Ryan asked, taking away the empty glass. Brendon wiped the sleeve of his good arm across his mouth, looking absurdly young for a moment. Ryan stood uncertainly by the bed.

"A little like I've been run over by a carriage and four," Brendon said, "which isn't quite what I would have expected."

"Right, no."

"Thank you for bringing me here."

Ryan flushed. "It's Z's – Lady Elizabeth's house."

"Oh. Well, thank her, I suppose."

Ryan nodded dumbly. Brendon looked up at him.

"What's wrong?"

Ryan laughed, shaky and incredulous. "You got _shot_."

"Yes." Brendon grimaced. "It's not fun. I won't do it again."

"It was my fault."

"What?" Brendon frowned and made an attempt to sit up straighter, wincing. Ryan stepped forward and smoothed his hand over Brendon's shoulder automatically, soothing, and then Brendon's eyes dropped to Ryan's hand and Ryan flushed and straightened. "It wasn't your fault," Brendon said firmly.

"If I hadn't –"

"I was the one who tagged along," Brendon said. "Uninvited, even."

Ryan shook his head, unable to meet Brendon's eyes. "This whole thing was my idea. It wouldn't have happened otherwise."

He darted a look at Brendon and found him watching Ryan, something cautious in his eyes.

"How long have you known?" Ryan blurted.

"That night," Brendon said. "After you went inside, I stayed a while, and, and then Mr Elliot returned, and you came out as, as yourself, and you had the rose."

"Oh," Ryan said numbly. Not till after the kiss.

"What made you _do_ it?" Brendon asked. "I mean. I know – I know that you and your set do crazy things for fun, and maybe you wouldn't care that every hostess in town would blacklist you if they found out, if you weren't run out of town completely. But it seemed as though you sought me out particularly when you got there." He was staring at his hands, but he looked up at this.

Ryan thought about making something up, then thought, _fuck it_. "I wanted to talk to you," he said.

"Except no," Brendon said, and he sounded almost angry, "you _didn't_. You didn't want to talk to me. At the Monroe ball last year, my sister pulled me aside to tell me who you were and when I turned back you'd just walked off! In the middle of a conversation, the moment you realised who I was –"

"I left because you wanted me to!" Ryan said, startled. "I saw the way your face changed –"

"I was surprised!" Brendon said. "But you just ... walked away."

"Well, I – well –" Ryan was beginning to feel ridiculous. "Well, then, _what?_ I can't tell if you're mad at me or not!"

Brendon tried to cross his arms, then winced again when it pulled the wrong muscles. "I can't tell whether you even _like_ me," he said, his voice rough. His mouth pulled down and he looked to the side, embarrassed, as soon as he'd said it.

Ryan leaned forward in the chair, barely conscious of what he was doing. "I wore a gown to a masquerade just so that I could spend time with you," he said. "I'm not sure how – that could be ambiguous."

Brendon turned back to look at him. His eyes had widened, and they looked very dark. "That was why you did it? The whole thing?"

Ryan nodded. He couldn't look away.

Brendon's hand moved on the bed, half lifting as though he was going to reach out to Ryan. "I thought you _hated_ me, for a year," he said, and he wasn't looking away either.

"No, I –" Ryan had to clear his throat, his voice too hoarse to go on. Somehow his hand had found Brendon's hip under the bedclothes. He wasn't sure when he'd leaned forward so far.

Brendon bit his lip, then smiled, something irrepressible and glad. He shook his head. "All right, then," he said. He tugged at Ryan's elbow, pulling him closer, pulling him down.

Then he was kissing Ryan, soft and not quite aligned properly. He pulled back, his mouth pulling into an uncertain expression. "So we could ... start again, maybe." His eyes searched Ryan's.

Ryan laughed, low and incredulous. "Yeah, okay," he said quietly, and he leaned down to kiss him. It was gentle because of the bandages and the bullet wound and the stiff pain in the set of Brendon's shoulders, but it made Ryan's heart hammer and thud in his chest.

*

Z was staring into the depths of her teacup, wondering whether it was too early in the day to introduce a dash of brandy to it, when Tennessee came down. She signalled her presence with a light drum of her knuckles against the doorway.

Z tightened her fingers around the edge of her chair, rising to her feet. Part of her wanted to jump up, but the rest of her was nervous of this solemn-eyed version of Tennessee, her boyish figure somehow _right_ in her physician's clothes. Z had needed four times as much attitude to carry off her gentleman's clothes for the masquerade and the duel.

Tennessee set her hat down on the low table by the door, and came a little way into the room. Her long hair had been turned up and tucked ingeniously into the back of her neckcloth, Z saw. Even now, Z could only tell because she was looking for it.

Z's courage failed her at the last minute, and instead of flashing Tennessee the conspiratorial grin and confession she'd planned, she dropped a polite curtsey. "Dr Godwin."

Tennessee's mouth turned down a little as she returned the bow. "My patient is resting," she said. "I think he'll make a full recovery, in the comfort of your house."

Z bit her lip. "I'm glad. It seemed the least I could offer him, after ..." She trailed off.

Tennessee inclined her head. "It's to your credit that you think so. But you could hardly be held responsible, could you? It wasn't you who shot him."

"O-oh," Z said. She had the uncertain impression that Tennessee was toying with her. Then she rallied. She wasn't the only one with outrageous escapades here: Tennessee could speak as solemnly as she liked, but she was still standing there dressed as a gentleman doctor, from her boots to her dove grey coat.

"Is this the first duel you have attended, sir?" she asked. "Professionally, I mean."

Tennessee didn't smile as she answered, "I hope you don't think I have attended many duels in an _unprofessional_ capacity. They're not exactly my line."

Z gave her a small grin. "No, I thought you might have mentioned it, if you had. It would have to count as more outrageous than letting the Duke of Wellington kiss your stained hand, I think."

Tennessee's eyes went bright and hard. "More outrageous than cheating at cards in Moscow, too."

"Ha!" Z clapped her hands together. "I knew that you knew!"

Tennessee made an inarticulate sound of frustration, turning on her heal and pacing the room. She wheeled back to Z in a controlled little motion, her chin raised and her eyes still bright and upset. "Well, you needn't sound so pleased!"

"Why not?" Z came closer, her steps skipping and tripping a little. She was laughing and almost giddy. "Tennessee. Dr Godwin. Young Thomas. This is great." She spread her hands. "Don't you think this is great?"

Tennessee crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. "You nearly got somebody _killed_."

Z stilled.

"You could have been killed yourself," Tennessee said. Her voice thrummed with feeling. "You think this is the most marvellous joke, but because of your irresponsibility I've just finished digging a bullet out of some boy I don't even know."

Z wet her lips, cold inside. "I'm – I know," she said. "I didn't mean – Urie wasn't supposed to be there. Nobody was supposed to get hurt, except maybe me. Or Rotham, perhaps, but I don't care what you say, I couldn't care if he got himself winged." She tacked the last on in a violent tone, then subsided back to her earlier penitence. "I didn't ... want anyone to get hurt."

Tennessee shot a quick look at her face, then looked away. "They did."

Z straightened, getting some spirit back. "And it wasn't irresponsible of you to impersonate a surgeon?"

"I know how to tend a man who's been shot!" Tennessee said, flushing. "I may not have a degree, but I've more field experience with gunshot wounds than almost any London doctor you could name!" She pushed back a lock of hair that had begun to escape her neckcloth. "And, and I did this for entirely different reasons! I was _concerned_ about you, about you getting yourself shot. That was why I dressed up as a man and came to the duel. Not as some kind of _joke_."

"Well," Z said, throwing herself across the room and leaning against the window. "Well, and so I was reckless! So it was my fault somebody got shot today!" She looked at Tennessee, stilling again. "I _know_ that. Do you think I don't know that?" She clenched her fists, her eyes pricking. "Do you think I don't know it every time I go too far?"

She turned away, pressing her palms against the window sill. "I'm not excusing myself," she said in a low voice. "I never forgive myself any of the deluded mistakes I make, especially when – when they get people hurt."

She heard Tennessee shuffling behind her, perhaps uncomfortable, but Z kept staring into the glass until there was no danger of her vision swimming anymore. Then she sniffed, spinning around.

"Anyway, that won't do," she declared.

Tennessee's face had settled into a reluctantly sympathetic expression. Now she frowned, stiffening.

"You were there when I made the challenge," Z said, "and you can't have been as disgusted with me as all that, because you cared enough to come and try to talk me out of the trouble I'd got myself in, the next morning. And to pretend to be a physician, too, today! I don't think this is about my recklessness at all."

Tennessee narrowed her eyes. "You _were_ reckless," she said, and her voice shook with something that sounded like hurt. "And you were cruel."

Z's thoughts shuddered to a stop. "What?"

Tennessee was flushed bright pink, now. She seemed to be having trouble holding Z's gaze. She made the effort. "It was cruel of you to involve me in the joke you and Mr Ross were playing," she said steadily. "I knew – I never imagined the th-things we said at the masquerade were serious, or that Lady Elizabeth, that _you_ were serious in the – the style of flirtation you – in anything you said when I came around the next morning." She got to the end of her floundering sentence and looked Z more directly in the eye. "But I didn't think you were _laughing_ at me."

Z's stomach clenched. She took a step forward. "I _wasn't_ ," she said.

Tennessee cut her off with a look. "Of course you were," she said, something lost in her voice. "You –" She started pacing again. "Do you know how charmed I was after the masquerade? I knew it wasn't serious, but I still spent the whole trip home, and the morning after too, breaking into ridiculous smiles, and then the next moment feeling as if my heart had been squeezed with _ice_ when I remembered that the wonderful Mr Elliot had signed up to get himself killed in a duel."

Z sank onto the window seat. She gazed at Tennessee, her eyes wide.

"And then I came _here_ ," Tennessee said, too much on a roll now to stop, "and I met Lady Elizabeth Berg, and do you know, I remember thinking – you and Mr Elliot were so similar, of course, but I remember thinking that as charismatic and appealing as Mr Elliot had been, it was as if he was a – a less formed imitation of the character that Lady Elizabeth inhabited easy as breathing. I thought he must be younger than you! Because he was more outrageous and he tried harder, to, to inhabit his own dashing personality, whereas Lady Elizabeth was – was somehow settled and lively inside her own skin, and, and her personality sparked out of every glance and every movement of her hands, and even the ways she was outrageous and ridiculous were somehow more conscious and more laughing than her cousin's, as though she was laughing at herself."

Z rested her chin on her hands. "Oh my God," she said quietly. She felt hollow inside with the degree to which she was in love with this girl.

Tennessee dropped onto a couch, all the energy gone out of her. "Except that you weren't, of course," she said in a dull tone. "You were too busy laughing at everybody else."

Z got to her feet and crossed to Tennessee. She sank to her knees, looking up at her. Partly for effect; partly because her legs were shaking. "I wasn't laughing at you," she said, all the words in a rush.

Tennessee jumped in her seat, her hands clenching in the material of her breeches. "What?" she said. She seemed to want to lean away and lean forward at the same time.

Z smiled brilliantly. "I mean – I mean, I do laugh at people, and it was fun, dressing up with Ryan, fooling people, that – I loved that. I hope you don't want me not to laugh at anybody, because I – that's a morally upright position but I probably couldn't do that." She stared anxiously at Tennessee, who gave her a blank look in return.

"But I _wasn't_ laughing at you," Z said, rising up on her knees and seizing Tennessee's hands. "I didn't want to fool you at all, except to get you to dance with me, maybe. The only thing that could have made the masquerade, the joke, more fun would have been if you'd been in on it with me!"

Tennessee looked down at her hands, imprisoned in Z's. Z could feel them shaking a little. "I think you're still joking," she said.

"Why?" Z demanded.

Tennessee tried to draw back her hands, but Z wouldn't let them go. "Because – because why me?" Tennessee said. Her voice was shaking too. "I'm a surgeon's daughter. I move in completely different circles to your – fashionable dining rooms and balls."

Z scowled.

"And you only met me for the first time the night before last," Tennessee continued.

"And you're wonderful," Z said simply.

Tennessee's face at that was so uncertain and overwhelmed that Z couldn't help herself. She surged up, catching Tennessee's face between her hands, and kissed her.

When she drew back, Tennessee's eyes were wide and searching. She was close enough that Z could have counted each eyelash as it brushed her cheeks. Tennessee licked her lips, her breath hitching, and made a soft, confused sound that didn't quite manage to be a word. She swayed forward.

Z cleared her throat. "I make up my mind about people very quickly," she said. "And I'm always right, you see." She frowned. "And," she added, aggrieved, "of _course_ I was serious at the masquerade, and when you met me as Lady Elizabeth. I've never told anybody that story about Moscow before, even if it wasn't true. And I've never lied about somebody being a slave trader because I was jealous of them before, either! Especially not myself. And I've never met a girl who would dress up as a doctor just because she was worried about me. Or danced with a girl in a glade at a masquerade, and wanted to keep on dancing with her all night."

"Oh my God, stop _talking_ ," Tennessee said breathlessly. She pulled Z up and kissed her, sweet and fervent. Z threw her arms around Tennessee's neck, kissing her back, and stopped talking.


	4. Epilogue

Brendon's eyes were very dark, like this, and his eyelashes looked longer than they usually did, framed by dark tumbled locks. Ryan stared, fascinated, and Brendon smiled crookedly at him, a nervous quirk in the corner of his mouth. Ryan leaned up to touch his lips to it.

" _Ryan_ ," Z said crossly. "Man your oar!"

Brendon laughed and shoved Ryan's shoulder, and Ryan sighed, sitting upright again.

"I don't see why we couldn't get a proper gondolier," he said. "And a proper gondola, come to think of it. We're meant to be seeing the sights."

"Oh, we'd have to be all proper, with someone listening in," Tennessee said, fanning herself idly, skirts spread across the wooden bench she was perched on next to Brendon. "It gets tiresome."

"And I don't want to pitch my voice up _all_ day," Brendon added. He wriggled, making a face. "Tenn, can't you loosen my corset? Just for a while?"

"No," Tennessee said serenely. "That would look ridiculous."

"It's too _hot_ ," Brendon complained. He smoothed out his skirts, shifting his shoulders back uncomfortably. The corset did do amazing things for his figure; Ryan always forgot how amazing. The drape of the white morning gown accentuated the curve of hips, and the bodice threaded with fuchsia ribbons, complete with the parasol he kept forgetting to hold up, made him the perfect picture of a lady on a pleasure cruise. If he would stop wriggling.

"We can go back to the hotel and swap, if you want," Ryan said. "You haven't worn a corset in hot weather before."

"But, Mr Ross," Brendon said, pitching his voice up alarmingly high, "however will you escort me to the ball?"

Ryan grinned. "You could escort me to the ball."

"But it's my _turn_ ," Brendon said, sighing and fluttering his eyelashes.

"Okay, you need to stop that," Z said. "You sound ridiculous. Ryan, your _oar_."

"Right," Ryan said hastily, picking it up. "Sorry, I'm doing it."

"Good," Z said, "or I'll relegate you to fan duties."

"Oooh," Tennessee said, voice hopeful. Her own gown was perfectly arranged, and the blue ribbons perfectly colour matched to Brendon's, because Tennessee had been in charge of wardrobe coordination herself. Which also meant that Ryan and Z were both impeccable in morning dress, even though Z had made a try for her riding coat and spurs.

"No," Ryan said. He scowled at Z. "You're a jerk when you're getting into character as Elliot, I hope you know."

"I'm a wonder, darling," Z said, her voice dropping low and husky.

"You guys aren't going to get into another duel with each other tonight, are you?" Tennessee asked, leaning forward. "Because the last one was a nuisance to fake."

"Depends whether Z can restrain herself," Ryan said wryly, and Z drummed the heels of her boots on the boat, stretching her legs out in front of her to admire the shine of her boots.

"Look," Z said, "if Ryan didn't cut me off on the dance floor, this wouldn't be a problem."

"It was an accident," Ryan said for the twelfth time.

"Yes, yes," Brendon said. "Let's not have this argument again, shall we?"

"When does your friend come?" Tennessee asked. "Is he joining us at the ball tonight?"

"Yes," Z said. She grinned at Ryan. "I told him you'd be there. How long do you think it will take Alex to spot me?"

"About half a second," Ryan told her, and Z laughed.

"We'll see," she said. "I bet I can challenge him to fisticuffs before he does get it, though."

Tennessee laughed, leaning down to loop her arms loosely around Z's shoulders.

"Really," she said. "No duels, tonight. For me."

"Oh, well. If you're asking." Z leaned back against her, tilting her face up for Tennessee's kiss.

"Hey!" Ryan protested. "Why are _you_ allowed to fool around in the boat?"

"We don't capsize it," Z said, and Ryan sighed, turning around to look at Brendon, who was mostly preoccupied with shaking out his skirts again.

"Brendon."

"Life's full of hardships," Brendon said. "Can you help me get this ribbon straight?"

Ryan squinted at him. "Sometimes I think you don't appreciate me properly."

Brendon laughed, and twirled his parasol above their heads. It was the pink one, the second best, but the best parasol had been lost in an unfortunate incident in Paris that involved Ryan, Tennessee, and Z climbing out the hotel window in all their skirts while Brendon shinned down the drainpipe.

They should try and replace it here, Ryan thought, add it to the enormous trunk of outfits that went around with them. Maybe they could get matching parasols again, and he and Brendon could play dark-eyed, silent sisters on the girls' arms. That would be fun, and Ryan rather liked the idea of wearing a skirt next to Brendon, of them helping to lace each other into the corsets. Sisters could stick together all evening, too. Maybe they could go to an opera or something like that, where no one would notice Ryan's hand on Brendon's knee. He shivered.

"Mmm." Tennessee sighed, soft and content. "I like Italy best, so far."

"We haven't even been to Greece yet," Z said. She sounded drowsy; Ryan thought he probably wasn't going to get told off about the oar again for a while. "We'll go down by the coast. Stay in one of the fishing villages, maybe. I'll make you a necklace out of seashells."

"I should probably like that," Tennessee said thoughtfully.

Ryan rested his arms on Brendon's knees, blinking up at him.

"Hi," Brendon said, smiling.

"What are you doing here?" Ryan said, low and wondering, and then he shook his head and laughed. "Sorry."

Brendon didn't stop smiling, but his gaze softened. He reached out and touched Ryan's cheek, his hand cool in the dainty white gloves.

"Looking exceedingly foolish," Brendon told him.

Ryan shook his head. "You look beautiful," he said, and Brendon kissed him.

Neither Ryan nor Z were paying much attention to the oars anymore, Ryan found when he next looked at them. He could feel the boat drifting a little in the current, until it bumped up against the side of canal. Ryan liked Venice. He liked who they were here. When he glanced over at Z and Tennessee again, Tennessee was stroking her hand through Z's hair, completely ruining the neat way Z had tied it back out of sight. They would fix it later. They could be late, if they wanted. There was no one here to keep them to any schedule or timetable save their own.

The boat scraped noisily against the stone wall of the canal, stuck there, and Z sighed, sitting up straight.

"Come on, Ryan," she said.

"I think I want to be someone else tonight," Ryan said. "Maybe an exiled poet. Or a duke."

"I'd like to be a duchess," Brendon said, brightening.

"I'm not sure you're serious enough to be a duchess," Ryan told him, turning around to grin.

"Oh, sure he could be," Z said. "Just channel your aunt, Brendon."

Ryan shuddered. "Or don't."

"You be a duke," Z told Ryan, her eyes brightening, "and I'll be your illegitimate half-brother, come to challenge you for your title."

Tennessee grinned. "Oh, Venice is going to _love_ us."


End file.
